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K R R A T A 

The reader will exeunt a few »'rror« that have escaped notice. 

On page !M, for lu^riout read lustrous. 

*. On (Taxe ilX^ Q>r ,^mera2 >r«ad fiujereal. 

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Some authors complain that it is more difficult to write the preface 
of a book than the book itself. I am not of those who think an 
author should come before the public with the humility of a mendi- 
cant or the fear of a criminal. For myself, I wish neither to beg 
interest nor deprecate criticism. It has pleased me to write a book, 
hoTrevcr humble its pretensions may be, and I leare the public and 
the critics to their full pleasure — to purchase or forbear — to praise or 

The articles haiie b^n 'composeft ^r; di£[er$nt •periodicals in mo- 

» ' . - .. , L * * * ' 

ments of relaxatiod Innd'grftvef duties, and thd}f afe now presented, 

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with some slight emenc(pjLiOns; in^la'coliie^d form. 

' • / ' ' * t 

The free remarks of the^ .^I'l*'. ^4 gpntl^m/mly critic are always 
advantageous to the yt)un^*aut!'&Or; /p£d*to &ny indications and sug- 
gestions made in the spirit of candor, I will give respectful consi- 
deration. But as there are some self-styled censors of the press, 
who mistake Tulgarity for wit, and abuse for critical acumen, I am 
not disposed to say to them, " I am sir Oracle, when I speak let no 
dog bark;" but on the contrary, I say, "Let erery dog bark that 
will bark." So 'cry havoc and let slip* the pack, "Tray, Blanche 


and Sweet-heart— the little dogs and all." 


• - 

• • • 
• • * * 

^ • • • •••••. 

^ • • • • * • "• 

•• • • • • 

• •• •• •-• 

• • • • •• 

• • * • • • 

• • • 

• • • 
• • • 

• ••••• • 



To Alethea, H 

The Young Siser, 13 

The Alpine Horn, 44 

The Fairy Isle, 48 

The Royal Professor^ 49 

The Dove, - - -. -. - - - ' ~ -,^ - - - - 92 

Evening at Athens,'/- - - j - - - -! ti-' 94 

A Portrait, - - 98 

The Hungarian Princess, --.----' 99 

Shelley's Obsequiefa> -.,-,'-- ■'- -* 134 

.. • ^ ^ 

The Mother's Lament, - -' - 136 

Stanzas, 138 

Obadiah Leatherfoy, or the Tight Shoe, 140 

To My Sister, 180 

Lines to a Jewish Shekel, 183 

To the Nyctanthes, 186 

The Group of the Laocoon, 188 

To my Mother, 204 



To the Washington Monument, 206 

The Power of Truth. A Prize Tale. Amsterdam, N. Y. 

Intelligencer, 208 

Venus Aphrodite, 22S 

The Gift, 230 

The Peri's Song, 232 

Carmen Sirenis, 233 

The Elnchanted Grotto, - 234 

Est Vita Similis Rose, 242 

Omoios Bios Elsti Moi, 243 

Tu Parcc Illi Arfoori, - - - 244 

Xnlokope pheidou, 245 

Oud* antes mneia poieitai, 246 

The Fair Orphan, - 247 

On an Antique QaoMso) -.-••• ; •;• • ' ~ ' ~ *^^ 
The South-sea IsifiMie|-.''>.A Pj-ize iWeV $Ci(\^«rn Church- 
man, Richmond, VaV, I- • ,•*,'•; 251 

Notes,- --.-••••.-••••••-•- 260 

• • • 

• • 


J ft^jV '^presentation plate. 

V ' Pag: 

Frontispiece, 1 

Vignette Title-page, 2 

The Fairy Isle, 48 

Hungarian Princess, - - 99 

The Tight Shoe, 140 

The Laocoon, 188 

Venus, 228 


Sw£ET are the days of childhood, when the light 
Sheds down a rainbow radiance on the paths 
Where glance youth's airy footsteps — when around 
The earth glows warm and beauteous; and the heart 
Is strong with impulse, and aspires with hope 
And all the young affections gushing forth 
Like crystal fountains among beds of flowers 
Diffuse the freshness and perfume of life. 

And in our alter time, amid the care. 
The bustle and the turmoil of the world, 
When early hopes are a vain mockery all, 
And the bruised spirit faints with weariness 
And sinks beneath earth's heartlessness, we turn 
With yearning bosom, to the simple joys 
And loved companions of our youthful days, 
That Eden-time of purity and peace. 

And oh! how oft when I have turned from men 
Within my lonely chamber's gloom, to hide 
The brow of sorrow, or when o'er the page 
My eyes have wearied by the midnight lamp, 
The visions of departed days have thronged 
My musing mind, and I have seemed to stray 
Again with thee, beside the silver stream 
At once the tjrpe and witness of our love, 
And seemed to drink the music ot l\i7 "^w*:. 
And gazed into those dark and VuVlto^OA ot^». 



Beneath whose blessed rays my youthful soul, 
Like Memnon's mystic harp, to music woke. 

Thou wert the star of boyhood, whose pure light 
I once deemed destiny; and sought with more 
Than true SabsBan-worship, yet estranged 
By time and distance, other hearts than thine. 
And new companions the affections swayed 
Of him who was thy childhood's early friend. 

The moon has waxed and waned; and rollinsf years 
Been numbered by the iron tongue of time 
Since last we parted in my boyhood's prime; 
Yet in my distant home the praise of thee, 
And of thy full-bloom virtues, oft has come 
As spicy odors to the seaman's cheek, 
To cheer the cares and fevered scenes of life; 
And I have thought of thee amid the smiles 
Of love and music of my children's laugh 
With such remembrance of my life's young dreams 
As need not tinge an angel's cheek with shame. 

And thou hast faded, fair one! — thy bruised heart. 
E'en as a flowret rudely-crushed, perfume, 
Exhaled the perfect graces of a meek 
And uncomplaining spirit — thou hast gone! — 
In all thy innocence and beauty, gone 
To tenant thy lone chamber; and the brow 
So brightly beautiful reposes now 
Upon the lonely pillow of the earth. 

Thou lost, yet unforgotten one, farewell ! 
Peace to thy holy ashes ! peace to those 
Who knew and loved thee 1 and whose stricken hearts 
8UU sorrow o'er thy mound. Departed shade ! 
That listeth to the strains of heavenly choirs, 
Accept, nor sacrilegious deem the requiem 
OftJie lone harp by thee attuned to aong. 



It was in the month of May that an European tourist, 
accompanied by his son, a lad of Qfteen, and a few 
friends, left the city of New York, and ascended the 
Hudson in a pinnace of a few tons' burthen. Their 
boat was provided with arms and ammunition, to repel 
the external attacks of wdlves and Indians, and a large 
supply of hams, bread, wine, and the little et ceteras 
of a good table, ta guard against the internal aggres- 
sions of hunger: while the array of gigs and angles, and 
the nets with which the deck was carpeted, gave 
evidence of extensive preparations for the invasion of 
the crystalline territories of the finny tribes. 

Lest my readers be waiting for the opinions of our 
traveller to resolve the doubt whether the scenery of 
the Hudson may be compared with the classic regions 
of the old world — its highlands with the romantic hills 
of Scotia, and whether its majestic stream, at one time 
leaping with voice of thunder down the precipice, now 


J4 L I T E R A R Y A M A R A N T H . 

rushing with unbridled course, like the foaming war- 
horse, and again flowing in mild tenor with smooth 
surface, into whose mirror the fawn comes down to 
gaze, or in mazy windings, encircling in its gentle 
embraces, the rugged forms of the pine-clad hills, sur- 
pass the grandeur of the **ever memorable Rhine," it 
may be well to inform them that the event of which we 
are speaking, took place at a time when the descrip- 
tions of European tourists were entitled to as little 
credit as at present, being then as much exaggerated 
in extolling a country which belonged to them, as they 
are now in undervaluing what belongs to us. There 
is such a marked distinction between meus and tuus. 
That I may be particular — I will premise that our 
tourist, James Monteith, was an Irish gentleman of 
family and fortune, who, familiar with the beauties of 
European scenery, had been attracted to the new world 
by the desire of contemplating the august features of 
nature in the solitudes of her lakes and forests. 

It was in the year 1770, when the settlements of 
New York were yet sparse; ere the towering forest had 
disappeared before the axe — while the march of civili- 
zation had pruned its luxuriance without injuring its 
beauty; and here and there, amid thick foliage, curled 
up to heaven the smoke of a cottage, like incense from 
the altar of a heathen grove. The thoughts, the sensa- 
tions crowding upon the brain, were new and strange. 

THE YOU \ G « I Z E R . , 15 

the small cultivated field, the humble cabin, with a 
village here and there, composed of a few houses in the 
dim distance blending with the horizon, forcibly brought 
to mind the primitive state of society, when the wan- 
derers of Eden, in the untrodden wilderness, sought 
alike for habitation and for sustenance. 

Their passage up the river was delightful. The 
scenery, like a panorama^ presented an ever-varying 
picture to the imagination; and hunting, fishing, with an 
occasional visit to the houses on shore, afibrded at once 
amusement and social pleasure. The Palisades were 
a source of peculiar delight to our traveller, not only 
for the beauty and re{j:ularity of the rocks as they stood 
towering upwards, from the water, several hundred 
feet, fluted and polished by the hand of Nature as if 
destined to be the pillars of Creation's temple, but 
because he found them the counterpart of the great 
natural curiosity of his own beloved inland — alike grand 
and magnificent in form; and, wrapped in dreamy 
imagination, he appeared to be gazing upon the 
"Giant's Causeway," where the hundred-handed bro- 
thers seemed to have piled their rocky battlements, for 
storming the citadel of the skies. Nor is it strange 
that he should dwell with unsatisfied eye upon the 
scene that presented itself; for to the wanderer, every 
sight, every face, every thought, with which the idea 
of home is associated, quickens the pulse with a livelier 
flow, and awakens sensations the most tender and 


intense; even a shrub or tree, exciting recollections of 
the homo he has left, he hails with transport as he 
would the features of a familiar friend. 

Nor were these feelings confined to the breast of 
Mr. Monteith. Morton, his son, though a boy of way- 
ward disposition, and cold and frigid in his feelings, 
even to moroseness, appeared to receive a flow of spirits 
and good humor altogether foreign to him; and des- 
canted largely upon the scenery, entering into a contest 
with his father respecting the comparative beauty of the 
Palisades and Causeway. He stoutly insisted that the 
former had the pre-eminence, and, as was generally the 
case, he was permitted by his good-natured father to 
have the most and last of the argument, if not the best. 

As they proceeded up the river, they came to a place 
where the rocks were less regular, and descended to 
J the water's edge in ledges, forming steps at intervals 
of about four or five feet. Here they found a lad fishing. 
He was apparently about fifteen years of age, with a 
clear brown complexion, regular features, dark piercing 
eyes, black hair, of which a ringlet or two peered 
through the rents of an old worn-out hat, and wantoned 
in the wind; and he stood upon a pedestal of a broken 
rock, with a gracefulness of form and attitude that 
would have done honor to a young Apollo, his vision 
calmly resting upon the buoy of his angle as it floated 
on the mirror surface of the tide. There was an uni- 
versal expression of admiration among the members of 


the party, with the exception of young Monteith, who 
thinking any praise bestowed upon another, derogatory 
to himself, asked his father, if "that dirty, red-looking 
boy upon the rock, was not a savage — savages were 

Mr. Monteith now ordered the boat to be brought to 
land, that he might obtain some of the vines and wild 
flowers, that clustered about the tops of the Palisades: 
but, above all, some of the shamrocks that were in 
blossom there; and while he had taken out his purse to 
send the oarsmen for refreshment, to a neat little farm- 
house at a distance, Morton clambered up the rocks, 
and, approaching the young fisherman, halloed to him, 
"Ho! savage! How many fish have you caught?" The 
boy turned round, and looked at him earnest^» though 
mildly, as if he would say, "Why would you injure 
my feelings?" but made no reply. Deriving confidence 
from his first essay, with language and tone more pro- 
voking, he again addressed himself to the boy, "Say, 
wild man of the rock, do you eat your fish boiled or 
raw, with scales on, or without?" The young stranger 
turned again, and looked upon his insulter without 
dpeaking; yet his cheek a little flushed with anger, his 
lips slightly compressed together, and the fire flashing 
from the dark lashes of his ind ignant eye, proved that his 
calmness and forbearance cost him considerable effort. 

Morton quailed under his glance, and was for a time 
silent, until the fisherman averted his head from him, 


and regarded his angle with the same interest as before. 
Perceiving this, his spleen and ill nature roused his 
fallen courage, and he again addressed the unoffending 
stranger — "I say, Indian! You knight of the ragged 
cap! what language do you speak? Has your tongue a 
smack of the Mohawk, Choctaw, or Cherokee?" 

Longer endurance was impossible; the boy wheeled 
round, and, with the rapidity of thought, returned, 
**My tongue, Mr. Impudence, has nothing of the Irish 
brogue, and my language nothing of the impertinence 
of the fool. Can young Paddy say as much?'* Such 
repartee Morton was as little prepared to hear as to 
bear; he caught up a stone and sent it at the head of 
the boy, who evaded the blow — "Ay, do! just throw 
another Utt me, fellow, and I will send you headlong 
into the river, till your anger is cooled again," said the 
. youth, as Morton was stooping for another stone. But 
■% in the eagerness of Morton to grasp a piece of rock 
near him, his anger exceeded his prudence, his footing 
slipped, he lost his balance, and was hurled precipi- 
tately down the craggy ledges of the rocks, that 
ploughed furrows in his forehead and cheeks as he 

Mr. Monteith had heard what was passing, and was 
hastening to check his son's abuse, when he saw him 
fall. The young fisherman entirely forgot the indig- 
nities offered him, and flew down the rude steps of 
the rocks to the relief of the sufferer, who in a state 



bordering upon insensibility, had been arrested in his 
fall, by his head striking against a tree that grew out of 
a fissure in the stone. On seeing the stranger, whom he 
8upposed to have followed him for the sake of punishing 
his insolence, he raised his hands and uttered an ejacu- 
lation for mercy. But the youth took him kindly by 
the hand, and, lifting him up, wiped the blood from his 
face and temples, and endeavored to take him on his 
back up the rocky ascent. Mr. Monteith with others, 
from the boat, soon came up; and Morton was carried 
thither, and his wounds and bruises washed and 

It was resolved now to return to New York, and Mr. 
Monteith, who was alike struck with the beauty, intel- 
ligence, and manliness of the young fisherman, offered 
him a guinea, which he modestly declined, observing 
that his father was averse to his receiving presents of 
money from any one. He then purchased a few strings 
of fish from him, for which he paid him handsomely, 
and entered the boat, after apologizing for the rudeness 
of his son, and encouraging the youth to act, always, 
with the mildness and dignity which he had evinced on 
that day. The boat had proceeded but a short distance, 
when the young stranger shouted to them to return, and 
held up something in his hand, which he appeared to 
have found. The boat soon reached the rock, and this 
youth of manly nature and incorruptible integrity, pro- 
duced a purse which he had found filled with gold. It 



was the property of Mr. Monteith, who, in the hurry 
and confusion consequent upon his son's accident, had^ 
dropped it upon the ground. His surprise did not 
surpass his joj, on finding, in the conference which 
ensued, that the young stranger, in whose favor the 
events of the day had justly excited a deep interest, 
was the only son of the Reverend Marmaduke Brown, 
of Newport, in Rhode Island, his early friend and 
associate. Young Arthur was on a visit to his uncle, 
who had lately removed to New York, and passed his 
time alternately in fishing and hunting along the Hud- 
son. As the time allotted for his visit was about 
expiring, he returned with the boat to the city, and 
thence home to his father under the care of Mr. Mon- 

I will not here describe the hearty greeting that took 
place between these old friends, thus unexpectedly 
brought together; nor the joy which Mr. Brown expe- 
rienced in again seeing his child at his paternal hearth, 
nor the honest pride which actuated his breast when 
he heard honorable mention made of his manliness and 
incorruptible integrity; neither will I speak of the thou- 
sand inquiries made respecting the "old country," or 
remarks upon the *'new," as it would be ft task to 
weary the tongue of garrulity itself. In no bosom does 
social feeling burn with livelier glow, than in the breast 
of an Irishman — ^under no roof are the rites of hospi- 
tality more religiously observed. Days — weeks glided 



by, and reciprocal kindness brightened every link in 
the chain of early friendship. Their pleasure also was 
heightened by observing the affectionate feeling that 
existed b^ween their sons — Arthur forgetting, Morton 
redeeming the past. 

Arthur Browne had enjoyed the advantages of the 
school established by Dean Berkely in Newport, and 
was distinguished by his talents, industry, and a strong 
desire of improving his mind in some European uni- 
versity. His morals, which his father had watched 
over with particular care, were pure, and his whole 
character and conduct at once dignified and honorable. 
Mr. Monteith conceived a strong and generous attach- 
ment to the son of his friend, and was anxious that his 
mind, evidently of a high or^er, should have an oppor- 
tunity of expanding, commensurate with its powers. 
He therefore proposed to his father, that young Arthur 
should accompany him to Ireland, and be entered at 
the University of Dublin with his son. He was influ- 
enced in this by the desire that Morton should have as 
a companion, one, whose diligence might excite him to 
emulous application, and whose morals might exercise 
a salutary influence in restraining him from the dissi- 
pation usual among the young men of the University. 

His earnest solicitations prevailed, and he returned 
to Ireland with his son and his interesting protegee. 
Arthur and Morton were admitted into college as 



had the same wardrobe, the same funds, and studied 
and slept in the same room — thej were brothers in 
every respect excepting disposition and morals. 

The pursuits and conduct of the two af College, 
were such as might be expected from their former 
habits. While Arthur, from the pure springs of classic 
literature, drew manly thought, and refined sentiment 
that enriched the mind, at the same time that they ele- 
vated and ennobled the heart, Morton gave himself up 
to a round of coarse pleasures, at once debasing and 
demoralizing. Thus while the one had treasured up 
in the storehouse of memory the jewelled thoughts of 
the ancient philosophers and poets, the other was stu-* 
dious to preserve the recollections only of 'the obsceni- 
ties of Catullus or Ovid}|Or the praises of wine and 
wassailing, as sung by FfaccQS. Abandoning himself 
to idleness and dissipation, he spent his days with such 
students as would join in private parties in each other's 
rooms, drinking and gaming. As it was impossible for 
Arthur to study in a room, where he was made the 
perpetual jest of the young bacchanals, because he 
would not join in their amusements, he often remon- 
strated with Morton respecting the impropriety of his 
conduct, but it only appeared to excite dislike, without 
serving to reclaim him. 

As Arthur was sitting one evening in his study, the 
loud tramp of feet was heard, and the laugh of the 
young bacchantes, as they ascended the steps. The 



passage was dark, and they evidently found their waj 
with difficulty along; they approached the door, and the 
voice of Morton was heard in stentorian loudness, 
singing Horace's ode to Bacchus — 

"Cluo, me, Bacclie, rapis tui 

Suddenly a foot tripped, and down they came with the 
noise of thunder, the head of one striking against the 
door of the study, and knocking it violently open. * 'Who 
is there?" cried Arthur, as he took up the candle to see 
what was the nature of the sudden uproar. "Who but 
Bacchus and his lion," said Morton, as he endeavored 
to rise from the spot where he hai fallen, with the biped 
who was carrying him, scarcely less intoxicated than 
himself. "I should ratl^^dge," said Arthur, with 
the sarcasm peculiar to MPrthat it was Silenus and 
his ass." This aroused t^sensibilities of "Bacchus and 
his lion;" and gave rise to much acrimonious expression, 
in which Arthur was informed by Morton, that it little 
. became a beggar who was clothed and educated by the 
bounty of his father, to speak of his equal rights to the 
room which they occupied. 

There was more in this than the elevated spirit of 
Arthur could endure. It had been to him a matter of 
humiliation to receive his education gratuitously, at a 
time when he supposed himself and Morton the only 
persons conscious of it — but now to be the recipient of 
charity which was vulgated, and even cast into his teeth. 



was galling beyond endurance. He accordingly pre- 
pared to quit the university, and addressed a letter to 
Morton's father, in which, after thanking him for the 
generous interest taken in his welfare, he informed him 
that circumstances rendered it impossible for him to be 
longer in the reception of favors which exposed him to 
contumely, and that he had come to the resolution of 
returning to his father. 

A short time before his intended embarkment he 
received a letter from Morton, which tended to give full 
evidence that the writer was destitute of every gener- 
ous feeling. Arthur had attracted considerable notice 
among his fellow students as a writer of sonnets and 
small poems, which had obtained for him among the 
young men, the title of no^^ureate to the university. 
Tills had, in no small JiP^Bexcited the envy and ill- 
nature of his illiberal companion; and as a last thrust 
at the unoflfending youth, he had copied into his letter 
the execrations of Horace against the "Poet MafiVius, 
about to sail." It is not to be supposed that this un- 
gentlemanly and wanton insult had its intended effect; 
to give poignancy to an indignity, it must be merited, 
and must be offered by one whose general character 
has in it something elevated and noble; otherwise it 
rebounds upon the head of him who offered it. 

At this time a letter received from America, bore to 
Arthur the melancholy intelligence of his father's 
decease. He was thus thrown entirely upon the world. 


^'X "^^^ THE YOUNG SIZER. 25 

m Dirithout a friend or relation with the exception of his 
father's brother. He still was intent upon returning to 
his country, and having met with a ship about to sail, 
he called upon the professors to thank them for the 
kindness they had shown him during his stay at the 
university, and to take leave of them preparatory to 
his bidding adieu to an institution hallowed by many 
considerations, none of which was more affecting than 
its having been the alma mater of his lately deceased 

The mental powers of young Browne and his exem- 
plary conduct and diligence, had attracted the particu- 
lar notice of the Faculty, and they were unwilling to 
lose a student, the splendor of whose intellect promised 
at no distant day to reflecj^e highest honor upon the 
place of his education, .^fflntble to induce him to*re- 
main under the patrona^ of Mr. Monteith, although 
that gentleman had disavowed the acts of his son, and 
conjured him by the remembrance of the friendship that 
existed between him and his father, to remain under his 
protection at the university, they persuaded him to 
enter as a sizer, during the residue of the time neces- 
sary for his obtaining a degree. 

Notwithstanding this was humiliating in the extreme, 
it was still less irksome to receive public charity than 
private benefit, embittered by a continual reference to 
the obligations he was under; he therefore consented 
to remain, and was accordingly admitted to the sizers' 


commons. Though the board to which he sat down 
was furnished in a great measure from the first table of 
the more lordly students, the fare was good, and his 
companions being on a level with himself, his feelings 
were not at table subjected to the contumely and super- 
ciliousness of those who, with no other excellence than 
that which their supposed riches and rank necessarily 
conferred upon them, thought themselves justifiable in 
looking down with contempt upon those whose station 
in life did not come up to their standard of birth and 

In this manner, Arthur passed three years. Con- 
fining himself to his room, he applied himself with 
unwearied attention to study, and was seldom seen 
except at recitations and jmyers. Thus holding little 
intercourse with the studeRs, his delicately-sensitive 
feelings were seldom exposed to the sneers of purse- 
proud arrogance; and if at any time aught was said or 
done to remind him of his dependency, his mind, con- 
scious of its own rectitude and powers, looked forward 
to futurity when his deserts would be known and 
appreciated, and he look down upon the heartless 
pigmy witlings that surrounded him, as much as they 
now looked down upon him. For let it not be supposed 
that modest merit is unconscious of its own excellence, 
or incapable of estimating its own intellectual powers; 
there is in true genius a spirit like that felt by the 
Pythoness, which stimulates every faculty of soul and 

ry f-'isei^;:,-'.- 


body, and with the living oracles of unerring prophecy, 
proclaims the glowing future. 

'Tis this anticipation of futurity — this twilight of 
the coming day of honor, that enlivens the darkness of 
the sickly artist's room: 'tis this that breathes strength 
and inspiration when the sinking energies of nature 
fail the exhausted student, as his pale, bloodless fingers 
turn the ancient page by the midnight taper, while, for 
reversionary immortality, he sacrifices present health 
and present repose. 

Having remained the requisite time at the univer- 
sity, he had the satisfaction of bringing his collegiate 
studies to a happy termination, by passing with the 
greatest credit to himself, the examination preparatory 
to the conferring of the ]|piccalaureate degree, while 
Morton and others who had trifled in unworthy and 
immoral pursuits, the time that should have been 
allotted to study, were not only denied the honors of 
the university for the present, but were referred back 
to classes whose graduation could not take place for a 
year or more. 

It was the second day of the commencement. Thtf 
theatre of the university was crowded with the beauty 
and fashion of Dublin. The stage was appropriately 
decorated with wreaths and coronals of bay and holly, 
and, with the provost, officers, and faculty of the uni- 
versity in their fiae college dresses, and the young 
graduates in gowns, it presented a most interesting 


spectacle. To the graduates this day was a triumphal 
entree into life from ihe toils of a laborious literary 
^campaign; and as if inspirited by the smiling faces of 
their friends, the young debutants acquitted themselves 
in a manner highly creditable to themselves and the 
professors; and long and loud were the plaudits that 
rung from pit, box and gallery. The ordinary theses 
had all been delivered, but before the final conferring 
of the degrees, there remained to be decided a contest 
for a golden medal, oflfered by the university. The 
competitors were three, and from the very respectable 
productions of those who had declined competing for 
the prize, the expectations of the auditory were raised 
to the highest pitch. 

The music of the orche^ra ceased — ^then died away 
in light echoes, and all was still. There was an inter- 
val of a few moments of breathless suspense, and 
every eye was directed to the group of students. At 
length one arose. He was tall and handsome; and his 
countenance and bearing indicated at once intelligence, 
and confidence in his abilities. His presence was 
greeted with loud cheers, and the smiles that were 
interchanged by many of the spectators, proved that 
he was not only known to many, but a favorite with 
them. He spoke, and his accents and pronunciation 
discovered his English origin. His eloquence was 
strong and forcible, characterised ^like by dignity of 
thought and powerful utterance. His attitude was 

k.. .' i'"' ji THE YOUN« SI ZE R. 29 

vMe and commanding, his gestures appropriate. 
Every eye was riveted upon him — many were the 
smiles that encouraged him, and the young English- 
man concluded amid the deafening acclamations of the 
delighted auditors. When he had taken his seat there 
was a murmur of applause that pervaded the assembly. 
The professors looked in each other's faces, uttered 
a few sentences, and bowed. There was something 
very significant, and ominous of good to the speaker, 
in that inclination of the head. 

The music of the orchestra again rose and died 
away, and there reigned the same stillness as before. 
The interest was even heightened, and every one was 
eager to see who would next enter the literary arena. 
A young man arose. He w^s the pride of Dublin, his 
native city; and the reiterated cheerings that greeted 
him, attested his popularity. His voice was full and 
sonorous — his periods turned with all the power and 
elegance of rhetorical art — and his gestures, energetic 
though chaste, revealed through the folds of his flowing 
gown, the manly proportions of limbs that would have 
appeared with advantage under the to^a of Cicero him- 
self. His eloquence was of that irresistible kind which, 
like a torrent, bears every thing before it. Each eye 
brightened — each face beamed as he proceeded, rising 
at every period, in height and brilliancy like the ascend 
ing rocket, till his oratory collecting all its force into 
a mighty effort, broke forth in conclusion, with loud 


detonation, in one grand burst of brightness. The 
effect was electrical. Applause like thunder pro- 
claimed his triumph as he sat down, imd many a ker- 
chief and scarf waved a recognition from friends. His 
victory was to be read in the features of the audience, 
and in the smiles and gracious nods of the provost and 

There was yet another speaker to be heard — ^but the 
interest had, in a great measure, subsided: no one 
could be expected to equal the late brilliant display of 
talent; and the many friends of the young Irishman, 
secure in their success, were rather revolving in their 
minds the glowing sentences of their favorite, than 
thinking of the rival who was to succeed him. The 
music had ceased, and there was a pause — a long, and 
anxious pause — for delay created anxiety. Moments 
passed. The people sat on the couches' as so many 
statues. Still no one arose. The professors looked 
upon the band of students. The eyes of the assemblage, 
as of one man, followed their glance, to single out from 
among the group, the last competitor. After an inter- 
val, a motion was noticed among the students, and a 
young man. was seen rising. He was pale and thin, 
one of those emaciated devotees who offer up the oil of 
life at the shrine of science; and his dark, glossy hair, 
gave a more sombre and death-like hue to his bloodless 
countenance. He wore not the collegiate gown, but 
was habited in a dress of dark gray, seemingly of 

> -It Wt, ^' THE YOUNG SIZE K. Ql 

.■ ■••■■ •.» *** 

^OArse texture, and much worn. He rose under evi- 
dent embarrassment, and was not received with the 
same plaudits that encouraged his predecessors; for 
there was something so novel and unexpected in his 
appearance and dress, that the spectators were struck 
with astonishment — there was even a faint smile of 
derision, as thej glanced from the abashed counte- 
nance of the student, to his rusty and thread-bare 

He at length raised his brow to the gazing multitude, 
and a flush diffused itself over his features as he essayed 
to speak. His voice at first was low and tremulous, 
and seemed to struggle in his breast for utterance, but 
soon swelled out into a fullness and sweetness of sound 
that rivalled the melody of a fine-toned organ. The 
commencement of his oration was beautiful; but it 
was the inanimate beauty of a statue. The nice and 
delicate arrangement of the members was there — ^the 
harmony — ^the proportion; but life was wanting — that 
spirit which gives effect to the whole mass, and without 
which it is nothing. His gestures also were stiff and 
constrained — more like the involuntary motions of an 
avtomaton, than the light movements 0/ animated 

The true Promethean fire came down at length from 
heaven, and the statue was animated*— it lived — it 
breathed — and all around felt the spell of its influence. 
His gestures were, then, the very impulse— the embo- 


died essence of the grand sentiments that he uttered. 
His eloquence was not of that kind which boasted of 
pre-eminence in any one species of excellence; it 
embraced, in a harmonious whole, all that is rarest and 
best of the different kinds, happily blended into one — 
like the mingled colors that form the light of day; and 
as his subject was one which afforded scope for the 
display of versatility of talent, he charmed his audi- 
ence at one time with the sweetness of his diction, 
again elevated them with the sublime, awed them with 
the grand and terrible, transported them with the 
beautiful creations of fancy, or amazed them with the 
opulence of his figures, and the boldness of his imagery. 
There were no plaudits as he came to the periods and 
pauses of his oration, nor clapping of hands — ^no 
wavirfg of scarfs — the body was passive — ^motionless, 
while the active mind, in all its intensity, caught every 
sentence — every word — every breath that was uttered. 
Acquiring confidence as he proceeded, the spirit of 
his address infused itself into his person: from his eyes 
gleamed a supernatural brightness — a god-like beauty 
played around his lips, and the muscles of his slightly- 
fashioned limbs, swelled out in full proportion, till it 
might be supposed that the soul of the speaker had 
burst its barriers and was gliding around the form it 
had animated. The interest of his oration was not 
only maintained — ^it was increased— every succeeding 
clause riveted the attention more; and the professors 


^wf^^ .'J? ^ THEYOUNGSIZER. 33 

aad auditors sat with brows upraised in wonder and 
astonishment, and lips parted in attention the most 
painful and intense. 

After he had held the minds of the assembly in a 
trance for nearly iwo hours, he drew to a close in all 
the transcendent power of his unrivalled eloquence — 
rushed from the stage, ^nd burst into tears. Intense 
interest had suspended their breathing — a loud inhala- 
tion followed his conclusion — there was a death- like 
stillness — the people sat motionless — spell-bound with 
admiration, and silently looking into each other's faces. 
A moment passed, and applause followed like the fall 
of an avalanche, which was redoubled, again and again, 
and again, till the very theatre seemed coming down 
beneath the thunder of their plaudits. 

The provost arose, and with his hand repressed the 
noise; a few words passed between the professors — the 
young Englishman and Irishman gave each a hand to 
the last speaker, and led him upon the stage, while the 
secretary rose from his seat, and read from a paper 
which he held in his hand, "To Arthur Browne, a 
young American, some time a sizer of Trinity College, 
Dublin, the provost and professors award the gold medal 
for superior excellence in Elocution. 

As the young American stood supported by his two 
competitors, the provost put a chaplet of evergreens 
upon his head, and attached to the breast of his coat 
the massive medal which he had so nobly won. There 
was something very interesting in seeing this represeli- 

34 L 1 T E R A R y A M A R A N T H . 

tative of one country honored bj the representatives 
of two others. The people knew not which to admire 
most, the talents of the young sizer, the generosity of 
his two rivals, or the candor of the judges who awarded 
the premium; and long and reiterated applause testi- 
fied their satisfaction. 

True genius is of no sex, nor age, nor country. Its 
brightness, like that of the sun, is common to all — all 
feel its genial light and heat, and acknowledge the spell 
of its influence. Numbers crowded around the young 
foreigner; and many and warm were the congratula- 
tions, he received. One person, above all the rest» 
appeared gratified at the success of the young sizer. 
Notwithstanding the crowd was immense, and the 
burden of a young lady was on his arm, he pressed to 
the place where he stood; and, as he wrung in fervent 
congratulation the hand of the youth, the tears stood 
in his eyes. It was the amiable Monteith with his 
daughter. His heart was unutterably full, as he wit- 
nessed the triumph of his former protegee — the noble 
hearted son of his deceased friend. 

Angeline Monteith possessed nothing of the hauteur 
and moroseness of her brother, but all her father's 
cheerfulness and goodness of heart. She felt in the 
exercises of the day, all that interest which they were 
calculated to excite in feelings naturally warm and 
enthusiastic. Years had passed since she had seen 
Arthur, a lively and interesting youth at Lauderdale, 
her father's country seat. 


III the meantime she had attained to womanhood, and 
the perfection of mental and corporeal graces. Her 
beauty and gracefulness made a very lively impression 
upon the heart of the young collegian; and his brilliant 
triumphs awakened emotions in the breast of Angeline 
Monteith equally tender and intense. 

Without money to prosecute the study of any pro- 
fession, Arthur engaged himself as an usher in Trinity 
college, and during his leisure hours, applied himself 
diligently to the study of law. While he was thus, 
through sedulous application, laying the foundation of 
future greatness, and advancing in the path of honor, 
young Monteith, who had entered the university with 
him, under circumstances that afforded every facility 
for distinguishing himself, was not only permitting the 
spring-time of his life to glide away without improve- 
ment; but was giving loose reign to youthful appetites 
and passions, that would hurry him into inevitable ruin. 

Shortly after, he lost his inestimable father, and was 
thus left without control, a ship on the sea of life with- 
out a rudder, amid storms and tempest. At this time, 
Arthur addressed to Morton, an affectionate letter of 
condolence, indited in the kindest terms, making re- 
ference to the friendship of their departed parents, and 
expressing a hope that the past might be forgotten, and 
their former intercourse be renewed; but the churl, 
with feelings alike unsoftened by time or affliction, 
returned his letter, in a blank envelope. One grateful 


heart, however, appreciated- the kind attention. Ange- 
line was lively sensible of the respect which was shown 
to the memory of her deceased father; and felt emotions 
corresponding therewith, for him who offered it. 

His increased salary enabled young Brown to accom- 
plish a favorite object, the paying over, to the univer- 
sity, of the full amount of board and professors' fees, 
during the time he had received the bounty of his sizer- 
$hip. He also transmitted to Morton Monteith, as 
executor of his father's last will and testament, the sum 
total which his father had paid to the university on hi» 
account, with interest added, which was duly received 
and acknowledged by receipt. He thus discharged 
what the loftiness of his mind would not let him con- 
sider in the light of a gratuity, but as a loan to be repaid 
with interest. 

Lauderdale, the seat of the late Mr. Monteith, was 
about twenty -miles from Dublin. Morton divided hi» 
time between this residence and the metropolis, sharing 
with those wild and dissolute like himself, the dissi- 
pation both of town and country. Angeline, who was 
thus, either left to solitude, or thrown into company, 
whose morals were but little suited to the refinement 
of female delicacy, left her paternal hall, and went to 
reside in Dublin with a maternal aunt. While here, 
she frequently saw the young American— admired the 
splendor of his genius— the nobleness of his mind, 
and was charmed with the liveliness of his* fancy. 


Their tempers were congenial, their preference mutual, 
friendship ripened into affection, and thej were mar- 
ried. In a prudential point of view, it was not such 
a match as Angeline might have aspired to. Her pro- 
perty and station gave her reason to look for a husband, 
more wealthy and elevated in life; but she preferred 
merit to riches, and domestic happiness to public 
splendor, for which she had a sufficient guarantee in 
his amiable and affectionate disposition. 

Morton was indignant at his sister's infamy, a» he 
termed it, and wrote an insulting letter to Arthur, in 
which he informed him, that not one pound of his 
father's money should pass as a dowry into the hands 
of a beggar. Arthur returned for reply, that his income 
was amply sufficient for the support of a family; that 
although he did not need the money which had been 
bequeathed to his wife, he knew the rapacity of the 
hand in which it was lodged, better, than to permit it 
to remain; that he had never begged of him, nor of any 
one else; and, that he doubted not the time would come, 
when pride would have its fall, and crime its punish- 
ment, and he be glad to solicit charity at the hands of 
those whom he had treated with unmerited contumely. 
A suit was forthwith instituted for the recovery of 
Angeline's fortune, and, after all the obstacles had 
been thrown in the way, which artifice and dishonesty 
could suggest, it was ftnally recovered. 


Time passed on, and merit and application had their 
reward. Arthur Browne was a graduate at law, and 
besides his duties in college, exercised the vicar-gene- 
ralship of Kildare, and practised in the courts as an 
eminent barrister, being retained as counsel in. most 
of the principal cases. His good fortune increased. 
About ihis time the Kiiig's professor of Greek in 
Trinity college died, having bequeathed to him an 
immense fortune, and recommended him as a succes- 
sor to the chair of his professorship. His request was 
complied with, as it was a selection which would have 
been made without such recommendation, and he 
was accordingly installed in his office with all due 

Shortly after this he was elected a director of the 
bank of Ireland, also lecturer on civil law in the uni- 
versity; and to crown the whole, for his superior 
abilities and eloquence, he was elected representative 
of the university in the house of Commons, where his 
influence was exerted to protect the rights of the sub- 
ject against the encroachments of power and oppres- 
sion, in a manner, alike creditable to the head and the 

As we have been endeavoring to sketch out for our 
readers, something like a historical parallel, we shall 
stop to enquire what were the employments— what the 
standing of Morton, while his early associate advanced 

T J. 


in reputation, reaping laurels from the distinction with 
which he filled so many important offices, and from 
the success with which he plead the cause of justice 
and freedom in the councils of his adopted country. 

Pleasure was Morton's only pursuit— sensual, de- 
grading pleasure — the pleasure of the chase — ^the 
brothel — the revelry of the wine -cup, and the dark, 
damning pollution of the gambling-house. From this 
his standing may be inferred. His base conduct had 
alienated all the respect and affection of the goo#— a 
respect and affection inspired by the recollection of his 
^ father's worth, rather than his own merit; and the only 
estimation in which he was held was that of a ''good 
fellow," among the dissolute, whose sympathies he 
could enjoy only, until his reckless dissipation and 
lavishness would squander his estate. 

The siren song of luxury may for a time lull con- 
science to sleep, the fumes of vice obscure the light of 
truth, and the mind under the enchantment of sensu- 
ality, roll on, in its darkling course of crime without 
reference to its pristine honor, or a consciousness of 
the destruction which it is rapidly approaching; but at 
length the song will cease to charm, the light of truth 
flash across the soul, like the midnight lightning, 
revealing its darkness; the spell of enchantment be 
broken, and awaking conscience, in all the pungency 
of bitter yet unavailing regret, retrospect the darken- 
ing ruins of hopes, property, honor, virtue, health, and 

40 L I T E R A R y A M A R A N 'J' H . 

fame, strewed . along the sere and blighted path of 

Morton Monteith was alone, with countenance pale 
and thoughtful. He sat in the recess of a window, 
resting his arm upon the ledge, and supporting his 
forehead with his hand. Despair was legibly traced on 
every lineament, and ever and anon, a groan issued 
from his inmost bosom. From the window at which he 
was sitting, the grounds of Lauderdale and greater 
par# of the estate were visible. These were the scenes 
of his youth — his happy youth. All the tender asso- 
ciations of early life were awakened, and the idea of 
parting from them for ever was painfully afflicting— 
especially when crime had created the necessity. His 
eye fell upon the distant vault that contained his 
parents' remains. It was surrounded by willows, and 
their long pendent branches seemed to curtain it, as a 
holy spot, from intrusion. His thoughts were with the 
mother of his infancy, and his indulgent father; and 
he felt how cruel it was to barter the soil which con- 
tained their bones, nay, the bones themselves, to an 
unfeeling stranger, abandoning them even to the sacri- 
legious plough. All their kindness — all his ingrati- 
tude — all his profligacy and unworthiness passed in 
dark array through his mind; his breast heaved, and 
the large drops, like rain, rolled down his cheeks. 

Gaming and extravagance had reduced him to 
poverty, and he only waited to receive from his patri- 

f- 1 ■ 


riTony, abdut to be sold, ^hat might remain, after fore* 
closing a mortgage which he had given upon it, before 
he would bid adieu forever to the land of his nativity, 
and hasten to the continent, a fugitive from justice and 
the violated laWs of his country. Some time previous, 
he had forged a note upon a merchant of Dublin, for a 
large amount, which was discounted in the bank, and 
the time of which was about expiring; so that his 
detection was certain and inevitable. The following 
day Lauderdale, with all its appurtenances, was sold; 
and all that remained to its former opulent propnetor 
was a few pounds, with which he hastened to depart 
from a country endeared to him by so many ties, and 
hasten a self* exiled wanderer into an unknown land. 

It was late in the evening of a day in autumn that a 
cabriolet containing a gentleman and servant was seen 
whirling along the road that leads to Dundalk, a sea- 
port on the Irish sea. A heavy trunk bound behind 
indicated that they were travellers, and the appearance 
of the horse, covered as he was with sweat and foam, 
gave some idea of the distance and rapidity of their 
journey. The servant held the reins, and as the whip 
smacked, and the vehicle rolled along upon the level 
road, bore himself proudly, and seemed entirely taken 
up with the fine manner in which he discharged the 
duties of his important office; but his master appeared 
Jess at ease. A wild and haggard expression at times 
excited his pale and melancholy features, restlessness 


.^ki UA-VAjt^^v appeared in his motions, he turned his eje 
1^^ 1^ u^HMU the road as if looking for some one, and 
. Uitiiu^ th^ driver for their slowness of speed, relapsed 
4^^jUM iuto gloom. At length two horsemen appeared 
tit ^ distance riding at full gallop. The gentleman in 
tJM^ oahriolet turned pale. He seized the reins in his 
h^di and applied the whip to the back and loins of the 
Yf>w jaded horse, as if life itself depended upon his 
speed. The noble animal, exerting 'all his powers, 
darted forward; and the carriage proceeded with a* 
yel(fcitj that far surpassed their former course. The 
horsemen appeared to urge their coursers to redoubled 
swiftness — they were evidently in pursuit, and were 
gaining upon the cabriolet. 

The suspense was awful. The sweat poured like 
rain from the sides and fetlocks of their horse, yet still 
the generous animal urged by the driver's lash, and by 
the prickings of his master's poignard in the back, 
hurried them along with accelerated velocity. The 
horsemen appeared to be gaining upon them every 
moment, and hope began to desert the two travellers 
as their animal faltered, and Dundalk was still two 
miles . distant. The darkness which now drew on, 
favored them, and the cabriolet struck into a private 
way, while their pursuers following the main road, 
were soon lost to view. The carriage stopped at one 
of the most obscure inns in Dundalk, but no sooner 
had the spirited animal reached the destined place, than 

^ ', '? THE YOTNG SIZER. 43 

he fell down in his harness — dead. His owner shook 
his head — ^his forebodings were melancholy, and leav- 
ing his servant to take care of his baggage, he rushed 
into the inn, and desired to be shown to bed. 

Scarcely had he lain down when the landlord came 
into his room, and informed him that two gentlemen 
were below who wished to see him. He desired him 
to inform them that he would presently be down. He 
arose and dressed himself and examined the height of 
Ihe room. A leap from the window would have 
endangered life, and there was no other way of escape. 
He was undecided what to do when he heard the sound 
of feet approaching his chamber. As the door opened 
he sunk back exhausted into a chair, retaining sufficient 
consciousness to notice that two strangers entered the 
room, one of whom held in his hand a paper, the other 
a candle. Recovering himself a little, he said to the 
men who had entered the room so unceremoniously, 
"I am your prisoner, you need not read your warrant; 
for God's sake do not injure me, — there I will go with 

"You need not fear injury at the hands of Arthur 
Browne, though you have merited it. In the distant 
wilds of America we first met, and injury and insult 
were the greeting you gave me. Nor was your treat- 
ment kinder while I was under the protection of your 
father at college; I was made to feel the obligation of 
every mouthful I ate. What has been your conduct 



since? Have you not aimed at lessening my influence 
and added insult to insult? Yet, for the sake of your 
deceased father; and your inestimable sister, my wife, 
I freely forgive you all the injuries you have done me. 
The giver of all good has prospered me beyond my 
most sanguine expectations. The 'beggar' has not yet 
expended a pound of his wife's dowry — principal or 
interest. Here is the deed of Lauderdale purchased 
with it — the note also forged by you, which my con- 
nection with the bank has enabled me to lift without 
the fraud becoming known; and I here tender you a 
check for the balance of the money I received with 
your sister, as cheerfully, as you surrendered it reluc- 
tantly. Return with us, therefore, to the estate of 
your father, and the embraces of your sister; and, 
profiting by the experience of the past, be guided by 
prudence and virtue for the future." 

The generous speaker ceased, and Morton Monteith 
and Arthur Browne were locked in each other's 

In conclusion, I would inform my readers that the 
principal incidents here are real, and inculcate the 
divine command, "Love your enemies, do good to them 
that hate you, and pray for them who despiteful ly use 
you and persecute you." 


! . V- y ^ 




The shepheFd of the bigbest Alps grasps his horn and pronounces throuf^ 
this speaking trumpet, the solemn injunction to the world below, ^'Pridse ye 
the Lord." This is repeated in succession by all who catch the sound,— a 
solemn stillness succeeds the last reverberation, and all kneel bare-headed in 
devotion, till darkness rests upon the earth. Again the horn sounds — the social 
"Good night" awakens the echoes— and all sink to rest 


From the mountain summit borne, 

A soimd through the vale is heard; 
A blast of the shrill and echoing horn 

The stilly air has stirred: 
Startling the vale with the tone 

Of ita spirit- waking breath, 
The echoing horn a blast has blown, 

But not a blast of death. 
'Tis not for the proud array 

Of warriors in their bloom 
And martiatl port, with the bright display 

Of gonfalon and plume. 

'Tis not the stirring call 

To grasp the spear and "shield, 
And strive for the laurel and coronal, 

Jg^the lists of the battle-field. 
Tis not for the charge in fight, 

Where the rid rain pours a flood; 
And the hosts are bowed, and the steeds foam white, 

Are dappled o'tr with blood: 


For it publishes abroad, 
As its peals ring out again , 

Not the rage of battle, but love to God- 
Peace and good will to men. 

The toils of day are done. 

Its cares and burdens o'er; 
And rest has come with the setting sun 

To the weary head once more. 
There is quiet upon the air 

And peace in the painted bowers, 
And bowed are the heads as if in prayer, 

Of the pure and modest flowers: 
Earth's incense heavenward floats, 

And the feelings of men accord; 
And the mellow horn rings out the notes 

Of joy, "Praise ye the Lord." 


And sweeter far than the swell, 

At eve, of the Muezzin's call; 
Or the booming peal of the vesper bell 

From some grey minster tall, 
They summon to prayer and hymn 

Of praise 'neath the arching sky. 
While the shadows throw over the vallies dim 

The folds of their drapery. 
And the siniple in heart bow down. 

While the ice-bergs lit by the fires 
Of the setting sun, on the mountain's crown, 

Flash like a thousand spires. 

The reaper from his sheaves- 
Herdsman and hunter are there; 

And the pruner from his viny leaves — 
And their voices blend in prayer. 



The voices of youth and men, 

And age with locks of white — 
Till the darkness falls, and the horn again 

Peals out the sound, "Good night!" 
Then they seek the hut or sod, 

Lulled by the Alpine horn. 
With a hope to rise at the trump of God 

On the resurrection morn. 




In the far off South, where no rnde breeze 
E'er sweeps o'er the plain of the halcyon seas, 
Where the airs breathe balm, and the heavens smile 
With a glorious radiance, a fairy isle 
Lolls on the breast of the mother deep 
With a dimpled cheek like a babe asleep. 

There forests sloped, from the silver flood 
To the sunlight lift their tall greenwood. 
With bowers beneath through whose tendrils gleams 
The mellowed light in its fitful beams; 
And embroiders around, with its golden sheen, 
The velvet moss of the alleys green. 
There beetling cliffs, and mountains high 
Their dark brows rear to the arching sky, 
With winding grottoes that flash with gems 
Richer than sparkle on diadems. 

There the crystal water^ently chime 
With a mellowed tone or a voice sublime— 
The streamlet's murmur, the fountain's call, * 

And the boundinjinsh of the waterfall — 
Till the echoes within their thousand caveJt, 
Laugh at the sound of the joyous waves. 
The ocean-ripples, with gentle flow, 
Sweep over sands like the drilled snow, 
And riog with a chime of mimic bells 
Among shining pe-bble? and purple shelb, 





c- . 

/r " 


That echo agaia their ocean tone, 
/ As heart responds to a heart like its own. 

But the richest treasures of earth and main * 

Have not been garnered up here, in vain. 
To deck, for many an ocean mile, 
In tranquil beauty, the fairy isle 
From the wrath of waves, and the breath of storms, 
For life is there in its rarest forms. 
The speckled fish, in their sportive play, 
Throw up from the waves the silvery spray; 
The sea-fowl winno-w^ the waters o'er. 
Or unfold their wings to the sun on shore. 
From blushing flowers of thousand dyes. 
And blossoms gleaming, like angel eyes, 
'Mid the dewy leaves of the waving trees, 
That fragrance shed on the passing breeze; 
In the calm of the twilight hour is heard ^ 
The warbling of many a forest bird, 
That thrills the eve with its notes, and ilJumes 
The dark green shades with its golden plumes.^ 
On the mossy cliffs, there ocean's daughters 
Their green locks dress in the crystal waters^ 
And the mermen gambol and pelt with peark 
And golden spangles, the naiad girls. 

At eve, in the dance, at music's call, 
On velvet alleys the footstep?^^ fall, 
. Of the fairy forms that in daylight sleep 
In winding shell, or in cavern deep; 
And some sail on wings of glorious light 
Through the soft and perfumed air of nighty 
While the car-like shell of the Fairy aueen 
Who reigns supreme o'er the airy scene, 
O'er the moonlit waters is seen to glide 
Witfi her swanlets breasting the rippling tide. * 



We grant, although be had much wit, 
He was very shy of using it: 
Beside 'tis known he could speak Greek, 
As natuitilly as pigs squeak: 
That Latin was no more difficile 
Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle. 
He was in logic a great critic. 
Profoundly skilled in analjrtic. 
For Rhetoric, he could not ope 
His mouth, but out there flew a trope. 
In mathematics he was greater 
Than Tycho Brahe or Eira Pater; 
For he, by geometric scale, 
Gould take the size of pots of ale; 
Resolve by sines and tangents strftigbt, 
If bread or butter wanted weight. 
And ivisely tell, what hour of the day 
The clock does strike, by Algebra. 


Some persons think that all mankind are born with 
mental capacities alike. How preposterous the idea! 
that, when the mass of inert matter is wrought into 
innumerable diverse forms, and when animated exist- 
ence appears under everj specification of color, figure 
and energy, that immaterial and divine essence, the 
inind, should exist in all rational beings exactly the 
same, evincing no modification, and discovering itself 
in but one development; and that all the grades of 
intelligence arc purely adventitious — the effects of cir- 
cu instance, education and observation. 


Consult Nature! Behold the great hierarch of day, 
eldest of the suns of light, when God said, *Let light 
be, and light was,' and then contemplate the pale star 
that gems the coronal of night — from the mountain, 
whose proud head o'ertops the clouds, turn to the lowly 
plain and more lowly valley— from the lion-hearted 
sea, whose roar is heard around the globe, turn to the 
purling rivulet — from the unwieldy Kraken of the 
North to the sportive shrimp — from the elephant, be* 
neath whose tread the earth quakes, to the chirping 
grasshopper— from the soaring condor, that cleaves 
the storm-cloud, to the tiny midge that quivers, like a 
moth, in the sunbeam — from the mountain oak to the 
pliant ozier — from the blazing diamond to the dull and 
opaque sand -stone, and by analogy of reason, as you run 
through the different genera and species, and the iooii- 
merable shades of variety in the same species, you must 
come to the irresistible conclusion, that the Creator 
has specified in man every grade of intelligence, — 
diversified by various degrees of power, brilliance and 
energy; the majestic intellect that is calculated to grasp 
the universe; the patient, investigating mind, slow yet 
successful in inquiry — the penetrating mind that, like 
a sunbeam, at a glance comprehends truth — and the 
dull, opaque mind, that neither has light of itself nor 
can reflect the light of others. 

But without any process of reasoning, observation 
must establish the fact, that there is an infinite dispar- 


itjr in the minds of different individuals; for many pos- 
sessed of every facility for expanding their intellects, 
and devoting their days and nights to unremitting study, 
are never able to attain to distinction: while others, 
not enjoying like advantages, and bestowing less at- 
tention, rise to eminence and obtain an enviable fame 
among men. And this difference of mental ability is 
alike obvious, whether we look at the great arena of 
intellect, the world, where often by mere mental ener- 
gy, the obscure hind has risen above nobility itself, to 
sway the rod of empire— or, at the cradle of intellect, 
the gymnasium, where the careless and erratic, though 
gifted son of genius, bears away the scholastic prize 
from the dull and plodding student. 

But to our story. And now smile not, gentle reader, 
when you find the above philosophical reflections de- 
signed as an introduction to the 'short and simple an- 
nals of the poor;' for one of the pnci^dipersonss dramatis 
of our story, though munificently endowed with the 
riches of the understanding, was poor in outward cir- 
cumstances. Clara Lawson was the daughter of hum- 
ble and obscure parents. Her mother was a native of 
New York, and after a short acquaintance, married an 
Englishman, greatly her senior in years, who, after 
living with her a short period, converted what move- 
ables she had into money; and abandoning his wife and 
infant daughter to the charities of the world, embarked 
for New Orleans, where he fell a victim to the diseases 
of the climate and his own \iceTi\.\o\xsTve%%« 


Clara's mother thus stripped of every thing, had no 
friends to whom she could apply, but was dependent 
upon her own exertions for a precarious subsistence; 
The occupation which she adopted was that of a wash- 
erwoman; and, although her earnings were small, she 
was enabled, by a strict economy, to provide for herself 
and child, fare sufficient, though homely, and procure 
comfortable attire, though of the coarsest fabric. Time 
passed on, and she was generally known throughout 
the city as the 'melancholy washerwoman with the 
pretty child;' for from the hands of no other did the linen 
come as purely white, or the frill or ruffle as neatly 
plaited. And never was any epithet better applied than 
the above to Clara and her mother; for the face of the 
one was motionless as the sea of oblivion, while that of 
her child was like a rivulet flashing in sunlight and 
dimpled by the soft fingers of every zephyr. 

The melancholy of Mrs. Lawson had in it nothing 
of dissatisfaction with outward circumstances, or of 
repining at labor to which her constitution was une- 
qual — it was the deep settled gloom of a mind where 
the sun of hope had ceased to shine — of a heart whose 
warm feelings unkindness had congealed. She was 
young and ardent, and attributing to her suitor excel- 
lencies that, in him, had only an imaginary existence, 
gav« her hand to him with all the devoted ness of 
woman's first love; and when the clouds of error were 
dissipated, and the creations of fancy gave way to 



painful truth; in the midst of unkindness she endea- 
vored to 'hope against hope;' and even when he had 
abandoned her and her infant, continued to cherish the 
recollection of him who had won her early affections, 
as the iv J* enfolds the ruined, rotten trunk of its early 
embrace. Her bruised spirit would have sunk beneath 
the pressure of sorrow, but maternal love nerved up 
her strength, and enabled her to make exertions for 
her child that she could not have made for herself. 
Often when she would have fainted over her wash-tub 
with fatigue, the sight of Clara, as she sported over the 
green with a countenance like an angel, inspirited her, 
or her innocent laugh as her little arms plashed in the 
water, playing with the soap-bubbles; or her soft voice 
as she hummed the infant hymns her mother had 
learned her. 

Modest merit is unobtrusive of its griefs and is per- 
mitted to suffer, while forwardness is hearkened to, and 
relieved from its very importunity. Although the thin 
form of the heart-broken woman for four years was 
seen gliding like a spectre along the streets, during the 
week, laden with the clothes of her daily toil; and her 
little child, with piles of linen, over which her bright 
locks fell in ringlets, like sun beams on flakes of snow; 
and although every Sabbath they occupied the same 
humble seat at church, no one had inquired into their 
destitute condition, nor had endeavored to put them 
into a war of earning a livelihood more suited to the 


mother's failing strength. *The melancholy washer- 
woman and her pretty child' came from the lips of 
many, as before, but was a sentiment of the lips, in 
which the heart had no share. It created no charitable 
desire to cheer the melancholy of the one, or shield the 
frail, unprotected beauty of the other from the hard- 
ships and snares of an evil world. 

Paler grew her cheek, slower the step, and more 
stooped the figure of the lone daughter of sorrow, yet 
with her wasted hands worn through the skin by attri- 
tion, she continued late and early to ply her accustom- 
ed labor, while deeper and deeper shadows spread over 
her countenance — the dull twilight of life darkening 
into the night of death. 

It was a morning in May; the sky was flushed with 
the rosy tints of the rising sun; and the hum of the 
distant city, with the gush of waters and the song of 
birds, came like the music of enchantment on the fresh 
air, scented with the breath of the flowers of spring. 
Every thing around smiled in the beauty and peaceful - 
ness of Eden. Deeply did Mr. Letour and his warm- 
hearted lady drink the influence of all that surrounded 
them: for the virtuous and charitable alone are calcu- 
lated to enjoy the calm beauties of nature. They had 
risen earlier than usual and had continued their walk 
beyond the precincts of the city, until they came to 
the humble suburban habitations of the poor. 

.The sun had not risen, yet the smoke was curll^^ 


Up among the clustering boughs of the weeping-willows, 
from the fire in the open air, where, beside the spring, 
the slender form of the washerwoman bent over her 
daily task. They had often marked the sorrowful 
countenance of the deserted woman, as she and her 
little daughter took away, weekly, and returned the 
clothes which they gave her; but the peculiar hardness 
of her fate had not presented itself to them until, in 
their morning ramble, they saw the unmitigated toil to 
which she was subject, and contrasted her cheerless 
poverty and wakeful labors with the extravagant and 
indolent day-slumbers of the wealthy. If the lux- 
urious inhabitants of the city would give to morning 
exercise the hours they waste in feverish sleep, and 
witness the hardships and the toils which the poor, 
late and early, have to undergo for a scanty subsist- 
ence, how often would pride and haughtiness learn a 
lesson of humility— how often would avarice listen to 
the dictates of charity, and the glow of benevolence ex- 
pand the breast that wraps itself up in its own narrow 
and sordid interest. 

As they approached the humble cottage, the cries of 
a child, from the thick bower of willows, arrested their 
attention. They proceeded hastily to the spot from 
which the noise came. The water was bubblins: in 
cauldrons over a brisk fire — confused heaps of dry 
clothes dotted the green grass over, like islands— there 
laj masses that had already been washed, in twisted 


rolls piled together — there stood the tub with its con- 
tents, from which the excited bubbles had scarcely dis- 
appeared, and beside it lay extended the washerwoman, 
as she had sunk down from exhaustion — pale, motion- 
less, stiffening in death. Beside the corpse was her 
little child, with her face buried in her arms, weeping 
aloud. In the firm grasp of the dead was a crumpled 
letter that she had received that morning, which told 
the story of her woes. It bore the post mark of New 
Orleans. This letter was from her husband, and was 
fvU of touching penitence for the manner in which he 
had behaved to her, and entreaties for her forgiveness. 
The conclusion was by another person that gave an 
account of his death. Labor and ill health had reduced 
• her form to a mere skeleton — hope, the oil of life, was 
extinct, and the sudden excitement had quenched the 
feeble light of existence, as the gentlest breeze ex- 
tinguishes the dying snuff that flickers in the socket. 
Re^oratives were resorted to, but in vain; the sufferer 
had reached that peaceful clime where the 'weary are 
at rest.' The dead was committed to the tomb, and 
her orphan child found a home in the family of the 
charitable Letour. 

Clara was now in her eighth year, and was taken by 
Mrs. Letour into her nursery, to assist in taking care 
of her young children. She had received from her 
mother some elementary instruction, and was able to 
read with considerable ease. Madame Letour had 


been educated in Paris, and was a woman of handsome 
acquirements, having, besides a knowledge of the mo- 
dern languages of Europe, an acquaintance with the 
ancient classics, together with the belles-lettres. She 
spent the half of each day in the nursery with her 
children, instructing them. The sprightliness and 
good sense of Clara soon attracted her notice; she made 
her a pupil with the class of her own daughters, and 
in the different studies to which she directed her at- 
tention, was pleased to see her make astonishing pro- 
gress. During five years Clara continued in the fanH- 
ly, doing service half the day, and devoting the residue 
to study; and in that time obtained an education, such 
as few young ladies had then an opportunity of getting. 
She was tall and well grown for her age, and her 
countenance was ever lit up by intelligence and cheer- 
fulness. If she had any faults they were those of 
excessive energy of character, and of her mixing with 
the world in her infancy; a confidence bordering on 
forwardness; a lively perception of the ludicrous, ftnd 
a keenness of wit and satire that, while it excited 
wonder, created fear. 

About this time, a certain Miss Margarette Lawson, 
an antiquated maiden lady on the wrong side of fifty, 
the eldest and only surviving sister of Clara's father, 
came over from England. She found out her inter- 
esting niece in New York, and took her to reside with 
her in one of the little villages in the western pari of 



the state, which, for sake of convenience, we will call 
Bloomingville. How much soever Miss Margarette 
might resemble her brother in features and national 
prejudices, she certainly had nothing of his extrava- 
gance — ^for a more sparing housewife never lived. By 
a rigid stinting of table and wardrobe, she had not 
only kept unbroken the principal of a small bequest 
made to her in her more girlish days, but had laid up 
also some guineas of the interest. Some few dresses of 
coarse grey stuff, comprised all her every-day wearing 
apparel^while a rusty silk gown, venerable enough 
in cut and color to have belonged to her great-grand- 
mother, with a black silk-hooded mantilla, made up 
her dress of state for extraordinary occasions. 

Four years passed away in the village of Blooming- 
ville, and Clara had gro^hii up to womanhood, and a 
beautiful and interesting girl she was, truly — ^yet she 
seemed a flower destined to *' waste its sweetness on 
the desert air;" for her high-toned sentiments, and 
mental acquisitions were ill understood by the inhabi- 
tants of the village in which she lived, who were noted 
for a plainness and simplicity, bordering on stupidity. 
Reader, take an example, and "ex uno disce omnes.^' 
Shortly after Clara came to Bloomingville, she asked 
one of the rustic beaux of the place if he liked novels. 
"Novels! Novels!" responded the interrogated, **can't 
say, for I never eat any, but I'll tell you what, I'm 
tremendous at a young 'possum.^' 


The reader, no doubt, has me^ with this anecdote 
twenty times; but as there is the same interest in deter- 
mining the place of origin of a good story, as of fixing 
the birth place of a great man, I am sure he will feel 
indebted to me for establishing its locality, although it 
is not likely that as many cities will strive for the 
honor as contended for the glory of giving birth to 
Homer. The school -master of the place, a tall hand- 
some personage of twenty-four, was the only one, in 
any degree, able to appreciate Clara's abilities: yet 
Reading, Writing, and a limited knowledge of figures. 
Grammar and Geography, were* the radius that de- 
scribed the cyclopaedia of his lore. The slight preten- 
sions that Herman Lincoln had to learning, established 
something like a community of feeling between them, 
which soon grew into a warln attachment. 

I hope my readers will not hastily conclude to des- 
pise my humble hero of the birchen-rod^but will 
recollect that, in 1800, (to which date the above histo- 
ry belongs,) the village schoolmaster who could read 
Dil worth's Spelling Book and the Psalter, and cypher 
through Gough's Arithmetic, was no inconsiderable 
person— and if, in addition to these, he had a smatter- 
ing of Grammar and Geography, and could survey and 
plot a field, he was set down as a prodigy. To resume 
our story, Herman certainly was the only one of any 
intelligence or reading in the place; and he had drawn 
upon himself the envy of the young rustics, on account 



of supplanting them in the affections of the village 
belle; though their envy had nothing of bitterness in 
it, for he had grown up among them, and his amiable 
disposition prevented any feeling of the kind. 

The months of July and August were a busy sea- 
son; — and, as the youngsters were too much engaged 
in harvesting to attend to books, Herman took advan- 
tage of the recess of school to visit the West, where 
he had some friends. Clara found the village rather 
duller than usual, after he had gone, and availed her- 
self of his absence to pay a visit to the friend of her 
childhood, Madame Letour, in New York. She was 
received with the greatest kindness by her benefactress; 
and, after spending seven or eight weeks in a very 
delightful manner, returned home, bearing many little 
presents that she had received ,^and, among others, all 
the necessary cosmetics, perfumes, powders, &c. &c. for 
a fashionable toilet. These, to be sure, were not needed 
to deck Clara's peerless beauty; but Madame Letour 
was a French w^oman, (which is another name for 
rouge,) and delighted in perfumes; and human nature 
is 80 constituted, that, in making presents, our self- 
love often induces us to present what we prize, without 
consulting the taste or the circumstances of others. 

Important changes often occur in the space of a few 
weeks. During Clara's short absence, revolutions, to 
her highly important, had taken place in the small vil- 
lage of Bloomingville. The sun was nearly set, as the 
• 6 


stage rolled in sight of the place. The eyes -of the 
maiden were directed to the elm trees, through which 
a glimpse was caught of the school -house. The door 
opened. The swarm poured forth, with laugh and 
song, and merry shout, and hats and bonnets tossed in 
air. And now the maiden's heart fluttered, and the 
color came and went on her delicate cheek — and now 
she caught the glimpse of her-— could it be?— her own 
Herman. The figure emerged from the shade. It 
was not the tall manly form of her lover, but stood in 
the light, in outline, more like a short, thick sack of 
wool, than a human being. But was he the teacher? 
Was there no other person in the room? Did not that 
^mall white-washed log cabin of twenty feet by twelve, 
contain one of more estimation, in her view, than all 
the opulent proprietors of the princely piles of brick 
and marble that she had seen in New York? No! The 
locking of the door — the bundle of books under his 
arm, and the pompous, philosophical strut of the 
stranger dispelled all her hopes, and left but little 
more to doubt or fear. Her lover was dead, dismissed, 
or had removed forever — afresh instance of the incon- 
stancy of mankind — even a parting farewell unsaid. 

As she came near a group of children who were 
behind the rest, and who seemed to be particularly 
intent on their books as they walked along, confused 
voices reached her like the hum of bees; and presently 
she could distinguish hie haec hoc, hujus hujus hujus 


— donw« bona bonunit honi bonse boni-^spero speras 
sperat, speramus speratis sperant, fyc. but O temporal 
more^J such pronunciation — such barbarous Latin 
had never been heard since the days of Romulus! I 
should mention that the inhabitants of Bloomingville 
were a mixed population. There was the deep guttural 
accent of the German, the broad Irish, and the stam- 
mering American mouthing Latin. The sounds, 
mingled together, were like the confusion of Babel, or 
the yell of triple-headed Cerberus himself. It was 
past all doubt. They had a new master, and a lin- 
guist. . 

Clara entered the house with a melancholy heart. 
Scarcely had she embraced Aunt Margarette, before 
the old 'lady, in breathless haste, informed her that 
"they had gotten rid of that fool of a fop, Lincoln, 
what knew nothink at all, and had gotten in his place 
an English gentleman, a royal prophesier of all kinds 
of lamen — what knew every thing. Lincoln writ on 
that he was sick, in delicate health, and expected to 
come as soon as he got well: but you see, Clara dear! ^ 
ihey wamPt going to wait, but took the royal prophfimt^ 
sierJ^^ Clara could scarcely refrain from tears — je^^ ^ 
indignation at the manner in which Lincoln had been 
treated, and irritation at the language of her aunt, gave 
her energy, and she replied to her aunt in a warm 
manner, "Professor, I presume you mean, aunt! — and, 
as the gentleman professes every thing, I would pro- 


pheny that he knows nothing. I suppose that he is 
some boasting blockhead that has come to this country 
to prevent his head from being brought to the block. 
He is certainly no gentleman to undermine another, 
especially while he is confined to a bed of sickness. 
I cannot see why people should be so foolish as to 
drive from among them those they know, and take in 
strangers, about whose talents and morals they know 
nothing, as if no one had any brains or worth, unless 
he came from over the sea." 

"And why arn't it so. Miss? Don't the choice of 
every thing come over the sea — wines and silks and 
the like, and why hain't folks there more brains too? 
Ar'nt they more 'lightened?" 

"Why, as to that, I can't say," replied Clara; "but, 

i/*they have more brains over the sea, most persons 

. take care to have their heads lightened of a large por* 

tion — ^for I generally find them as addle-pated as you 

seem to think the Americans." 

Clara here perceived a tremendous cloud on Aunt 
Margarettji's brow, and hastened to escape from the 
jMftirrent of abuse that followed; but, as she tripped up 
^^tairs to her room, she heard repeated the words — im- 
pudent — ^fool — and personal 'flections.' 

The next morning Clara was confirmed that she was 
correct in the estimate which she had made of the Pro- 
fessor's abilities, by the perusal of the following card, 
which her aunt produced: 


"^ Carrf.-r-Henry Hardigan, Royal Professor from London, 
where he has taught several of the princes of the blood and sons 
of the nobilitj, announces to the public that he has taken the 
Academy in the village of Bloomingville, where he will teach 
the following branches: Orthography, Kaligraphy, Brachygra- 
phy, Reading and Geography, Numerics, Optics, Katoptrics, 
Hydrostatics and Pneumatics, Algebra, Fluxions, and Saxeo- 
pontine Constructions, the Mathematics analytically, syntheti- 
cally and geometrically, Demonology, Psychology and Mytho- 
logy, Ontology and Dontology. Also, all the ancient and modern 
Languages, together with whatever is comprehended in the most 
extended cycle of the cyclopedia of art and science. Great 
attention paid to the morals of the pupils, and the most polite 
perfections and genuflections of the finished courtier instilled. 
Terms moderate. 

It was true, the faithful services of young Lincoln 
were forgotten. Parents were anxious to procure for 
their children the blessings of an education which they 
had not themselves; and, with a pitiable credulity, 
which is still an American characteristic, exalted a 
foreigner over one identified with their own interests 
and honor. The Royal Professor was engaged, and the 
inhabitants of the village of Bloomingville^ 
goddess of Wisdom to break a shower of knowledge" 
over the place, as Jupiter had formerly done a shower 
of gold over the Rhodians. Plain English and useful 
Jcnowledge were eschewed — and to please the impor- 
tunity of the children — to pay proper respect to the 
teacher, whose dignity might not brook plain learning 



SO well, and, furthermore, to gratify the foolish vanity 
of parents — ^boys who could not tell the difference 
between the centre and the circumference, or distin- 
guish a noun from an interjection, were forthwith put 
into Latin. The children were delighted with the 
change — the change of teachers, and the change of 
lessons. Each one looked with contempt on his former 
studies and the teacher who superintended them; and 
looked forward to the period when they should become 
royal professors themselves, and have royal times of it, 
and tak\e very Parnassus by storm. 

Time passed on, and the inhabitants of Bloomingville 
congratulated themselves on having secured the ser- 
vices of so eminent a Professor. He was regarded as 
the greatest philosopher of the age. He not only un- 
derstood all the discoveries made since the flood, but 
made some himself, with which he contemplated soon 
to ^astound the natives' — not of our humble little vil- 
lage, but of the world. He had also formed very long 
and learned theories, which were exceedingly mystified, 
and so the people did not understand them. This, 
h|f|^HNts a proof of the correctness of the theories, 
as any which they would have understood, could not 
have been correct. Of these theories, I will cite one 
of the shortest and most plain, that my readers may 
judge of the deep sagacity of the Professor's inquiries 
into the nature of truth. 

That the days are longer in summer than in winter. 


is a natural fact — that all bodies expand with heat, and 
contract with cold, is a natural law — that the dafjrs in 
summer are expanded bj the heat, and the days in 
winter contracted by the cold is a natural inference. 
Was there e^er a deduction more natural? The above 
'was the theme of one of the Professor's lectures, 
delivered in the school -room a few evenings after he 
had come to the village; and, after detaiiine some 
interesting experiments which he and his you|^K*iend, 
Lord Stanhope, had made in London with a /^Aaeter, 
an instrument which, the Professor said, gave me con- 
densifaction and rariflication of heat: to determine the 
phenomena of the long days in summer, and also some 
experiments which he and Earl Musgrave had made, 
with a ^pyrometer — an instrument that shows the 
radiation of cold, to explain the phenomena of the short 
days in winter, he was enabled to demonstrate the 
truth of the above law and inferences to the entire 
satisfaction of his astonished auditors. 

He boarded at the village-tavern, and lodged in the 
upper room of the school, which was a building of a 
story and a half; and here, late at night, when every 
light in the village was extinguished, would be seen 
the gleam of Professor Hardigan's lamp. He was 
polite enough to drop in of an evening, and see his 
neighbors for a few minutes: but such, he said, were 
his studious habits, that he enjoyed social intercourse 
as the dessert of life, but hard, abstruse study as the 


substantial meat. At first he called on his friend and 
country woman, Mrs.Margarette Lawson, almost every 
evening; but, after Clara's return, his vbits were more 
seldom, and less lengthy — which was strange, as the 
intelligent like to mingle with those of kindred spirit; 
and certainly she was the best fitted to cofhprehend and 
enjoy the Professor's profound erudition. When he 
did visit her aunt, Clara used her ingenuity to draw 
him oTOon particular subjects, that she might sift his 
prete^^Bis somewhat; but aunt Margarette and the 
Profe^r were both so fond of talking, that she could 
scarcely edge in a word at all, much less enter into a 
thorough unravelling; — besides, when she had an op- 
portunity, she was afraid to proceed very far, lest she 
might offend the gentleman, and provoke the ire of her 
aunt, who had not sufficiently studied Blair, to have 
proper regard in her rhetoric, for the decorums of time 
and place, when in a wrathful mood. 

In addition to his voluminous reading. Professor 
Hardigan devoted much of hi« time to astronomical 
observations, and had converted the window seat of 
his attic dormant into an observatory. Here he sat of 
evenings, with several lamps around him; and with' 
arms bent like an Indian bow, supported a small tube 
directed towards the stars. From many a window in 
the village, were turned the eyes of sire and son, to 
the star-gazing man of science, as they thought upon 
the stupendous discoveries likely to be made — and all 

THE ROYAL P R O F E f? S O R . Qy 

by the teacher of their school, too, — 'twas overwhelm- 
ing to think of it. 

True, the tube was a very small one: but by some 
discoveries which the Professor had made in optics, he 
had so improved it, as to bring the moon sufficiently 
near to enable him to hear the roar of its sea. That 
the instrument was a good one, may be inferred from 
the fact, that by nice calculations made with it, assisted 
by a good almanac, he had actually come within five 
minutes of the time of an eclipse, by the landlord's 
watch. In addition to a valuable philosophical appa- 
ratus, contained in a large chest, he received from Al- 
bany, shortly after his coming to the village of Bloom- 
ingville, a box containing philosophical instruments to 
be used with his telescope when looking from his ob- 
servatory. These instruments were a present from 
the Astronomical Society of London, on account of 
some discoveries which he had communicated some 
time before his leaving England. The instruments 
were put into the sanctum of his attic bed-chamber, 
whither no one had access — not even to make his bed, 
and so the anticipated pleasure of seeing them was 

A slight accident, however, happened in the using 
of the above philosophical instruments jointly with his 
telescope, which, perhaps, may be of some interest to 
«ny readers. The astronomer had mounted his obser- 
vatory as usual, and commenced his starry specula- 


tions. He was in the habit, generally, of muttering to 
himself while so engaged; — but, this evening he was 
more boisterous than ever. One of the villagers, who 
was curious in astronomical matters, had gone to the 
school -room for the purpose of hearing, if possible, 
what the philosopher was saying. The villager was a 
simple-hearted man, and had heard that wicked \nen, 
by magical incantations to the stars, had wrought much 
mischief; and it was not clear to him, that the strange 
conduct of the schoolman, had good in it. He placed 
his back against one of the elms, and continued to 
witness the behavior of Professor Hardigan, and listen 
to his singular language, until he fell asleep. 

The astronomer, meanwhile, continued his specula- 
tions, until his Jarge head and shoulders declined 
rather much from a perpendicular — he lost his centre 
of gravity — his centrifugal force overcame the centri- 
petal — ^there was a crash of the dormant- window -seat 
observatory, and the rattling of chains and telescope— 
the burning lamps fell on the head and breast of the 
affrighted star-gazer, setting fire to his gorgeous ruffles 
and his greasy, bushy head, — and. Phaeton-like, he was 
hurled towards the earth, ^^flamma rutilos populante 
capillos.^^ The noise awakened the sleeping villager; — 
and, opening his eyes, he looked up with consternation. 
He had not time to move his limbs — ^but the action of 
the mind is quicker than that of the body. As the 
fiery meteor descended, he recollected that Hardigan 


had said he had often drawn down the moon; and the 
idea presented itself, that he had now drawn down a 
gtar — or,. remembering that the Professor dealt in as- 
trology, he thought he had drawn down the devil upon 
him; and the next instant he thought just nothing at 
all-— for the astronomer's large bony* head struck his, 
fairly knocking out his senses — ^and both lay extended 
on the ground. 

The attic dormant was dim, for the observer, like 
the lost Pleiad, had vanished from his place. When 
the royal professor was taken up to his dormitory, he 
exhibited every appearance of being royally drunk; and 
the fumes of his breath rather bore testimony against 
him: but yet it was hard to judge rashly, for he had 
never been known to purchase a glass of drink of Mr. 
Krause during the time he boarded at the tavern. The 
key was left, however, a few days after, in the door 
which led into the upper apartment, and as boys will 
be prying into mysteries, they endeavored to get a 
peep into the box of philosophical instruments from 
Albany; and, on looking in, discovered two kegs, neatly 
packed, which, to credit the evidence of the olfactory 
nerves, contained brandy. But, says one of the little 
boys, more considerate than the rest, "Well! what if 
it is brandy? May it not be one of the transparent 
meJiO that the professor tells us about, through which 
he contemplates the moon?'' Who knows that the 
simple youth was not right. 


We will now turn our attention to anotheV person, 
of whom we have lost sight for some time. Herman 
Lincoln returned; but ere he had reached the yillage> 
rumor apprised him of the sad reverses that had befallen 
him — the loss of his school^ and> worse than that» of 
the loss of his sweet-heart; for it was also reported that 
Professor H^digan was unremitting in his attentions 
to Clara; and cold must have been the heart th^t could 
have resisted the soft rhetoric of so learned a man* 
Lincoln was still in feeble health, and this intelligence 
was anj thing else than a balsam. He was disposed 
to be a little jealous, and could now readily credit the 
faithlessness of Clara, since his patrons had cast him 

The parents, in facTt, were ashamed to see him, after 
the manner in which thej had treated him, but the 
children had all their former regard awakened at the 
sight of one who had always treated them with sa much 
kindness. They fared differently now; for the pro- 
fessor's bony knuckles, like a bag of marbles, were 
continually rattling about their little republican heads* 
This they and their parents considered a. violation of 
their reserved rights; for while they left all that exten- 
sive territory from the collar vertebras on the north to 
the ankles on the south, to the full sweep of the rod of 
empire, they constituted all the more northerly rd|ion» 
a free territory. However, as Latin was a good thing, 
the parents allowed that it wa» to be gotten at the 


expense of — a little suffering in the flesh. Children 
thought differently, and would greatly have preferred 
conning their simple multiplication-tables, which they 
could understand, to being beaten with the royal pro- 
fessor's sceptre, a huge hickory, through Latin, of 
which they could understand nothing. 
^He appeared to copy after the Indian orators, who 
distribute rods among their auditors at successive para- 
graphs to assist the memory; for no sooner had he 
finished any explanatory remarks to his class than he 
endeavored to afford mnemonika to all and sundry, by 
a most liberal distribution of the rod. 

But what of Clara? Was she pleased with the at- 
tentions of the learned Englishman which had become 
so frequent? Had the solicitations of aunt Margarette 
disposed her to listen to his addresses? Could she so 
soon forget the object of her early affections? Frailty! 
thy name is woman. Herman's lynx-eyed jealousy 
discovered from her conversation a real or pretended 
preference for his rival. If real, it was most ungrate- 
ful — if pretended, cruel. Clara Lawson was a volatile 
girl — ^volatile girls are often fickle — sometimes mis- 
chievous. But more anon. 

The village of Bloomingville was a healthy place, 
and did not much require the services of a physician; 
yet Dr. Grayson, a young licentiate, rather a disciple of 
Momus than ^sculapius, selected it as the scene 
where he was to study medicine and practise — jokes. 


He was the soul of fun and frolic. His liveliness and 
intelligence could not fail to render him agreeable to 
Clara— here was another rival more formidable than 
the professor. Herman was unhappy; he had lost his 
school; Clara had ceased to love him« or had so little 
regard for him as to take delight in teasing him and 
keeping him in suspense. He determined upon ar- 
ranging his affairs and forever leaving a place where 
he had been treated with so much ingratitude and in- 

Halloween is a time of festivity, of fun and frolic, 
of cake-making and nut-cracking. In ISOQ it was a 
more joyous season than it is now — for modern refine- 
ment has either obliterated or lessened the good old 
customs of our fore-fathers. The inhabitants of the 
village of Bloomingville could not be without their 
share of sport; and there was to be a merry making — 
Will you believe it reader? — at aunt Margarette's. 
Yes! that sparing, stinting housewife, after great im- 
portunity from her niece, had resolved to give a feast 
to others, though she should fast herself afterwards 
sufficiently to make it up. Yet a part of the guests, 
at least, were not to go scott-free, for the old lady 
contemplated on making them sew to the amount of 
the entertainment; so a quilting was determined upon — 
that best of merry-makings of the olden time. 

"Why, Clara!" said aunt Margarette, entering the 
room, "You astonish me! Not dressed yet! Why, 


railly now, Clara! with your inilk-of-roses, your co- 
log-ne, and your pearl-powder, you'll take up half the 
evening at your toilet, as you call it — and a toil you 
make of it now, to be sure. I wish you would stir 
yourself and get ready. You know I must be in the 
kitchen at the cake, and no one will be ready to receive 
the gali as they comes in. Besides, I want you to 
mark out the diamonds of the quilt before they come, 
that as lUtle time as possible may be lost. I dare say, 
with their giggling and laughing they'll not do much, 
no how. Come, child! haste!" 

"Yes, aunt," said Clara, "I am in haste; but we are 
to have the gentlemen, you know, and I want to be a 
liitle particular." 

"Yes, that's well enough,'' says her aunt; "but I 
don't think you need be very particular, for I can tell 
you the Professor is over ears in love, already." 

"Well, aunt," said Clara, with a laugh, "that is not 
very deep, to be over the ears of such a duck-legged 

"But he is in love very deep,'^ resumed aunt Mar- 
garette, "and let me tell you, Clara! he is an English- 
man, and hates the French and all their fooleries, as I 
do myself — ^he'U like you none the better for being 
powdered and perfumed over. Confound that French 
woman, for turning your head with such nonsense." 

Her niece was irritated at the disrespectful language 
used respecting one to whom she owed so much, and 
replied readily — 

N,; L I T E R A K V A M A R A N T II . 

**Stty^^»«e 1 wa» to tell you, aunt! that I am an 
\i tt< fi nik n^ ami hate the English and all their fooleries?" 
AiiU the arch little maiden, with a roguish smile, con- 
lunued 1^ twirl the long golden tresses through her 
&a^C^r»« while her graceful neck assumed every variety 
of allitadei as she studied her looks in the old-fashioned 
Hiinr^Mr that rested on the bureau, by the side of which 
«he was sitting. Aunt Margarette's countenance, 
which was cheerful, became serious. She could not 
t«»U whether her niece was in earnest or in jest. A 
cluud began to rise on her brow — the precursor of a 
storm— -and a storm with aunt Margarette was no small 
aflliiir. It was a real hurricane — a tornado of passion. 
She informed her niece that the Professor contemplated 
making a formal tender of his hand to her; and then 
opening the bureau, she showed Clara a large amount 
of gold in a secret drawer, and informed her, that the 
reception of that, at her death, depended upon her 
listening to the addresses of Professor Hardigan. 

Of all rhetoric the silent eloquence of cash is most 
persuasive. Yet Clara had a head and a heart on which 
nature had stamped freedom — she was not to be moved 
by aunt Margarette's gold. A smile at her aunt's 
earnestness, and a laugh at the Professor's expense, 
tended to excite our irritable dame of the black silk 
hood. Clara was sarcastic — ^her aunt became abusive. 
I will not repeat what passed. Suffice it to say, that 
aunt Margarette was furious, and gave unrestrained 


vent to her madness in ''thoughts that brealj^e and 
words that burn." She attributed all the mischfef to 
the airs which that "vile French woman" had put into 
her niece's head, and seizing up the paraphernalia of 
the toilet, cosmetics, perfumes, &c. &c., hurled them 
over the house. Never was a room scented better with 
cologne, or a young lad v whitened with powder. * 

How great is a calm after a storm. Aunt Margarette 
sat in the room with a countenance brightened with 
cheerfulness, enjoying the conversation of the evening. 
Only one thing was wanting to make her happiness 
complete — the presence of her countryman, Mr. Har- 
digan. Ever and anon she went to the window to look 
out for his advent. She desired his coming ardently, 
for she thought Dr. Grayson appeared to engross too 
much of Clara's conversation. Herman Lincoln thought 
80 too, and so did many of the rustic beaux who were 
assembled on the occasion. Presently the sound of 
footsteps was heard along the rude pavement, like the 
roll of a drum, and the royal Professor was descried 
moving along, puf&ng and blowing like a steamboat. 
That he was a man of great impetuosity might be 
gathered even from his walk. 

He came driving on at a tremendous rate, and as he 
entered the door with vehemence, and was about takins: 
aunt Margarette's extended hand, the toe of his boot 
stuck in the carpet, and his head drove against the ribs 
of the old lady with the force of a battering ram, knock- 



ing her against the door. Clara said something to Dr. 
Grayson about ''polite perfections and genuflections'' 
which caused a titter. "Plague take the fellow's head," 
said a rustic beau to the tavern-keeper's daughter, **he 
nearly knocked daddy's brains out the other night, at 
the school -house." Here was a general burst of 

When the Professor entered the room he was the 
'observed of all observers.' Reader! would you see 
him? Well, then, fancy to yourself a low, square- 
built man, five feet high, and six feet thick, cased in 
grey stockings, black breeches that fitted as tight as 
the skin, and an old claret-colored coat, dotted over 
with metal buttons as large as a crownpiece. But 
you would hear of the features. I will particularize. 
The head was large enough to have suited a statue of 
Atlas, and was covered over with long, bushy hair of 
the deepest red. The brow was low and wrinkled, 
and — strange to say! — had nothing philosophical about 
it. The mouth had an expression of— openness, say 
three inches and a half. The eyes were large and 
protruded, between a blue and a green, and had that 
appearance of inflammation which generally is the effect 
of nocturnal lucubration. But the most prominent 
feature has not yet been described. His nose — Shade 
of Ovidius Naso! behold yourself surpassed! — his nose, 
I say, from the plain of the plainest face in Christen- 
dom, towered up, like Mount iEtna, huge and undu- 


iating, and like Mount ^tna, red and tierj at Uie apex. 
And, what is unusual, his nose bore a conspicuous part 
in conversation, for it warmed with his animation; and, 
by sundry twitchings and gestures, seemed to second 
the force of his arguments. Such were the figure and 
features of Professor Hardigan, as they appeared to 
Dr. Grayson, who was a caricaturist, and to Herman 
Lincoln, who was a jealous man. They may possibly 
be a little overstrained. 

The Professor had been peripatetically engaged, as 
he classically expressed it, and as it was one of those 
very warm evenings which will sometimes happen in 
Indian summer, exercise had heated him. He felt op- 
pressed, and scarcely had he taken his seat between 
Clara and Dr. Grayson, and found time, after his in- 
troduction, to inquire of the latter at what college he 
had graduated, when he so far forgot the proprieties of 
courtly etiquette, which he professed to teach others, 
as to pull off his claret-colored coat and throw it upon 
the bed which stood in one corner of the room. Such 
strange conduct excited surprise; but a smile was on 
the countenance of every one as they glanced from 
their needles to the coat that was spread out on the 
counterpane — forming a circle, or rather an oblate 
spheriod; for it was broader than it was long. Clara 
was provoked at the disrespect which the Professor 
had shown, and looking first at the coat and then at 
its owner's nose, apparently entering into the conver- 


sation which had been started, asked the Professor if ^ 
he had not graduated at Brazen-Nose-College. The 
roar of laughter was now immoderate, and all joined 
in it except Clara and the person interrogated; for, not 
perceiving that any thing was intended, he proceeded 
regularly to give the history of his collegiate course. 
This gave her an opportunity of drawing him out in 
conversation, which she gladly improved, while Dr. 
Grayson, who sat by, listening to their conversation, 
kept thrusting his red pocket-handkerchief into his 
mouth until it had nearly disappeared. Strange con- 
duct, indeed! Was it done to prevent his laughing? 

During a conversation on caloric^ in which Dr. 
Grayson incidentally mentioned the fact, that dark 
bodies radiate heat more rapidly than light ones, Clara 
asked the Professor if he suffered much from cold 
hands in winter — glancing at the same time at the 
clasped hands of the Cyclops, as he sat twirling his 
dingy and begrimed thumbs. Finding caloric rather a 
warm subject he passed speedily to some remarks on 
electricity, but he was met here again by the mischiev- 
ous little wit, \jho, when he had observed that the 
electric shock is' generally felt in the weakest part of 
the body presumed that Ac had been accustomed to feel 
the sensation in his head. 

The young ladies and gentlemen were all attention, 
though they could seldom comprehend either question 
jor answer. One reply, however, which the Professor 


made, they readily understood. While he was speak- 
ing of astronomy, Clara interrupted him to know what 
was meant by an apside of the moon. The upside of 
the moon, did you ask? Why the upper orn, child! to 
be sure. They had become familiar with his swallow- 
ing the letter A, and readily received orn for horn, as 
it was intended. After a long dissertation on demon- 
ology the Professor related some freaks of witches, in 
which he believed implicitly. During his essay, the 
tavern-keeper's daughter amazed at his display of 
learning, whispered Clara to ask the Philosopher if he 
knew where the philosopher's stone was to be found. 
**In the professor's head, instead of brains," she re- 
turned, in a low voice. Dr. Grayson caught the re- 
mark; his head shook as with a palsy, and he appeared 
eating his bandanna, as before. Mr. Hardigan now 
commenced Mythology and History. In the former 
he made occasionally some slight errors, merely of 
numbers, such as the seven Fates, the nine Graces, the 
three Muses, &c. Roman history he inflicted next, 
from the time that Romulus called on Jupiter Stator 
to arrest the flight of the Romans ad Jinem. Jupiter 
Stator, by-the-bye, was a favorite deity, for all his ex- 
clamations were made to him. 

After he had proceeded for some time, he made 
mention of the "wolf Nero,'' as he was pleased to call 
him, and in his remarks attributed to him some actions 
that belonged to ^neas. How he bore from Troy, 


which he had set on fire out of pure wickedness, bis 
aged father Anchises — and the like. Clara fixed her 
bright, piercing eje on the Professor's face — paused, 
and then begged to know in what he had read the won- 
derful account. "In the hannals of Tacitus, the Latin 
istorian.^^ Clara unlocked a little drawer, and put 
Tacitus into his hands. Professor Hardigan was 
surprised — Dr. Grajson laughed — Herman Lincoln 
straightened himself up in his chair, where jealousy 
had been transforming him to a statue, to prove that 
he had not become all stone — ^the girls stuck tlieir 
needles in the quilt and looked on, wondering what 
was to be done next. Clara evinced no emotion, but 
patiently awaited the result of the Professor's investi- 

Professor Hardigan was in a quandary. [He thumbed 
the leaves carefully, and then with triumph pointed to 
the passage, on a page where the name of Nero stood 
conspicuous. Clara begged a translation of the part. 
He regarded the expressive countenance of the girl 
cautiously, and then began — but seeing symptoms of 
an irrepressible laugh on her lips, conjectured that 
Clara had some knowledge of Latin, and was not to be 
humbugged. So he ceased translating, and acknow- 
ledged that he had made a mistake^ and that the actions 
of the savage "wolf Nero," could not be found in the 
**hannal8^^ of Tacitus. Aunt Margarette was hurt for 
her countryman, and endeavored to assist him. She 


trotted away into another room — and returning, said 
to him, ''If the wolf Nero could not be found among 
the 'hannimals' of Tacitus, may be you'll find him 
among the hannimah of Goldsmith;" and so saying, 
ghe threw into his lap Goldsmith's Animated Nature. 
He was silent and continued to look at the pictures. 
At length he closed the book, repeating some lines from 
his favorite poet, Ovid — ^probably his ancestor — which 
had come over his mind like inspiration. Clara went 
to her drawer, and a copy of Ovid was soon in the 
hands of Professor Hardigan. "It was a mere lapsus 
linguse — he meant to say Virgil." Clara handed him 
Virgil, desiring to be favored with a sight of the pass- 
age. "How could he blunder so! — It was Persius." 
Persius was offered him. "No! No! Jupiter Stator! — 
What made his senses fly from him? — It was Theocri- 
tus." Clara's hand dropped into the drawer for another 
book. Professor Hardigan mounted up from his chair 
horrified — a chill had ceased him — he ran to the bed. 
His herculean shoulders were encased in his old claret 
coat, and he would have been off instantly, had not 
aunt Margarette just come in, to announce tea, and 
forcibly detained him. Clara had subjected the pre- 
tensions of the royal Professor to a fiery ordeal. In 
the course of the evening, without perceiving it, she 
had drawn him out upon all the branches set forth in .t 
his card, (with the exception of one,) and proved him to 


be a rojal blockhead and impostor, much to the amuse- 
ment of Dr. Grayson, and the relief of her lover. 

The girls had plied their needles faithfully. Their 
labors were unremitting — ^not even the laying out of a 
diamond occurring to break the monotony — for all the 
quilt was laid out when they came. They were pleased 
with the relaxation offered now from work, and, to- 
gether with the beaux, followed aunt Margarette to 
tea. The quilt was nearly finished. Aunt Marga- 
rette's expectations were so surpassed by their des- 
patch, that she felt an unusual expansion of heart, and 
did the service of the table in the most hospitable man- 
ner, and with as much grace as could be expected. 
The "tea'' was not like the tea of modern times, but 
was a substantial feast of roasted, boiled, and fried — 
light-bread^— cakes, various as those made by the epi- 
cure Apicus, and pies. 

There is much philosophy in eating. It diffuses a 
calm over the feelings — the melancholy man forgets 
his sorrows — the angry man his ire, as the process of 
mastication goes briskly on. It was thus with Pro- 
fessor Hardigan and Herman Lincoln. You will re- 
collect, reader! that I said Clara had an exhibition 
of the Professor's skill in all the branches which he 
professed, with the exception of one. That one was 
|k. the science of **(]?ow^o/ogi/;" and to do the man justice, 
I will say that he understood the use of teeth as well 
as any man living. As plates of cakes disappeared 


before him; and spare ribs, and whole broiled partridges 
were craunched beneath his teeth, Clara had before 
her, barring the two eyes, the Polyphemus of Homer, 
preying upon the bodies of Ulysses' companions. In 
fact, she looked upon him as the only type of that 
**monstrum horrendum'' which she had ever seen. 
After disposing of some half-a-dozen cups of tea with 
a proportional quantity of ^eat and bread-stuff, he 
gave a final proof of his skill, in performing that most 
difficult of mathematical problems, the quadrature of 
the circle, by taking a quarter section of a pumpkin- 
pie, about eighteen inches in diameter. 

Herman's jealousy during the evening had been put 
to rest, pretty much, so far as the Professor was con- 
cerned; — ^but Dr. Grayson excited his fears. He was 
very attentive to Clara; — their understanding appeared 
to be good: and their whispering together sometimes, 
convinced him that she had merely thrown aside one 
of his rivals to take up another. However, he soon 
experienced relief, at least for the present — for the 
young -3Esculapian had a professional visit to make, 
which compelled him to tear himself away from the 
company. That Dr. Grayson should have a profes- 
sional visit to make, was something wonderful! Her- 
man had now an opportunity to enjoy Clara's company, 
and came to the conclusion that she had not entirelj^ 
forgotten him. I will not describe to my readers th^" 
rustic games with nuts, the naming of apple-seeds, and 


other innocent trifling of the evening. Thej have all 
seen and taken part in the like. The cheer was good- 
all were delighted, and the company broke up at alate^ 
hour; the beaux waiting on the joung ladies to their 
respective homes. 

But it was Halloween, and more was to be done 
before sleeping; and it was therefore resolved that the 
gentlemen, according to the good old custom, should 
try their sweethearts by dipping the right sleeve of 
their shirts in south- running water, — and then placing 
them by the fire, see or dream what lady was to come 
' and turn them. But where was there a south-running 
stream? No such stream could be found, except one 
that burst out, in a long subterranean cavern, near the 
village. A beautiful spot it was — ^fit residence for a 
naiad — two apartments, with sides and ceiling of moss- 
grown rock, with a narrow opening like a door, con- 
necting them. But Professor Hardigan did not like to 
study its geology by night — much less on Halloween — 
the holy-day of witches and warlocks. Nevertheless, 
so much had Clara interested him, notwithstanding her 
quizzing him, that he determined to perform the 
ablution, if another would only enter, and do so before 

Some thirty yards from the mouth of the cavern, 

Igdjiey stood debating who should enter first. At length 

one volunteered; and leaving the band of his comrades, 

boldly entered the cavern and returned, having per* 


formed the ablution . The Professor' s cou rage was now 
put to the test; and, in truth, he proceeded valiantlj, 
that he might not be outdone by his predecessor. He 
entered the cave with his imagination filled with 
witches, and continued his walk, cautiously feeling 
his way along the rocky sides, towards the spot where 
he heard the gurgling of the waters. At length he 
reached them, and had stooped down to perform the 
rite, when he heard the rattling of chains; and, on 
looking up, saw in the passage between the caverns, 
a horrid looking fiend, robed in a mantle of fire, with H 
eyes lambent with flame, and blazing horns! — During 
the 'reign of terror,' within the cavern, there was 
terror without: for a most unearthly-looking being • 
passed by the group that the Professor had left, striking 
fear into the hearts of the most hardy. Mortal it could 
not bel — Witch it might have been, had it been bestrid- 
ing a broom, or had it glided noiselessly by. But its 
tread was like the footfall of a giant, with the clank of 
the heaviest clogs that ever shod the foot of an Irish- 

Professor Hardigan was spell-bound in the cavern; — 
but, recovering his strength, he rushed from the dread 
being, who rattled his chains, and came driving on to 
poke him through with his long horns: but, in running 
from one fiend, he encountered another more frightful,. >**■' 
at the mouth of the cave, for it addressed him — "Och! 
Hinry Hardigan! ye rogue ye! Is it frim your wife 


and three childer ye biv rin away, to try swatehearts 
in Immerica? Och hone! but I'll see ye hanged yit! 

Shame on ye! I'll" but Henry Hardigan heard 

no more, for he had reached the open air, and was run- 
ning with a speed which Jupiter Stator himself could 
not have arrested. Need I inform my readers that Dr. 

Grayson had paid a professional visit to- the cavern) 

covered over with a luminous coat of olive oil, and 
phosphorus, and a respectable pair of horns, to person- 
ate his Satanic majesty; and that the wife of Professor 
Hardigan had come over from England to claim her 
rightful lord, who had absconded from her bed and 

The village of Bloomingville had lost its brightest 
ornament — for their philosopher, astronomer, and Pro- 
fessor, had decamped, and was never heard of after-. 
Parents were taken in, for they had paid, in advance, 
for a quarter, only part of which had been put in. The 
landlord had received nothing as yet for board, — but 
he considered himself safe, as the Professor's apparatus 
would more than pay his demand. Accordingly, he 
levied on his telescope, his cKest of philosophical in- 
struments, and the box of instruments from Albany. 
The telescope was not of great value — for it was a plain 
one, of easy construction, being the handle of an old 
warming-pan, with glasses neither convex nor concave, 
but piano on both sides, such as is generally used in 
windows. The chest contained jugs — the box, kegs. 


These jugs and kegs had contained brandy, but now 
contained — nothing. Never had so great a rig been 
played upon a humbugged people, as the royal Profes- 
sor had played. 

But what became of Herman Lincoln? "The course 
of true love never did run smooth.'* Its termination, 
however, does sometimes. Will you believe it, reader? 
there was another company at Aunt Margarette's, and 
Clara Lawson dressed in white, with Herman Lincoln 
at her side, 6tood in the middle of the floor— a minister 
before them, and the villagers gathered round in a 
circle; and they, whom rivalry and fears had separatisd, 
'became one flesh,' to be disjoined no more. The 
morning after the wedding, Aunt Margarette felt sorry 
that she had destroyed the neat little box which 
Madame Letour had presented to her niece, although 
it did contain French perfumery. It would have been 
some little ornament to the bridal bed-chamber, which 
was very plain. But her regrets could not re-unite the 
disruptured fragments of the box. She therefore did 
what she could, ^to repair the matter, and presented her 
niece with an old-fashioned bo3? that had belonged to 
her grand-mother. This box was valuable, because it 
was a relic of antiquity; but more so, because it con- 
tained five hundred guineas. 

Herman Lincoln obtained his school;— ^nd the vil- 
lagers, to repay him for the injustice which they had 
done him, gave him a greater patronage than ever. He 


taught English by day, and studied Latin at night, 
under Clara. **'Tis sweet to be schooled by female 
lips," says Byron. So thought Herman. His profi- 
ciency was astonishing — ^lie soon became a perfect 
linguist; and a neat two story brick building, with tall 
spire and bell, occupied the place of the old white log 
school-house; and the pure Greek and Latin were, at 
len«;th, heard within its classic shades. 

The village of Bloomingville increased in size — in 
intelligence and population. Dr. Grayson became an 
eminent practitioner of medicine, as well as jokes; and 
was ever the family physician of Mr. and Mrs. Lin- 
coln, and all the young Lincolns. Clara attended to 
her domestic duties like a faithful housewife, yet found 
time, occasionally, to write a poem or essay, which, in 
gratitude for the five hundred guineas, she always dedi- 
cated to ''My Dear Aunt, Miss Margarette Lawson." 
Aunt Margarette, notwithstanding the abatement of 
some x)f her anti-American prejudices, was still an 
Englishwoman; — -and, as she turned up her nose at all 
American Magazines, sent all her niece's productions 
to England, where they appeared in the different peri- 

What a plain tale! exclaims the critic. Well, I have 
heard it said that a good moral will redeem the dullness 
of a tale, barren in style and in incident; and, fearing 
that this may have been without sufficient interest, I 


have endeavored to redeem the dullness of it by making 
it have three morals: — Firstly. Let not married men, 
who have wives living, take the trouble of trying sweet- 
hearts on Halloween. Secondly. Let Royal Profes- 
sors be examined, before they are engaged. Thirdly. 
Let aunts, who are anxious to marry their nieces to 
foreigners, first learn whether they have not wiv^ 





The fields have faded, the groves look dead, 
The summer is gone, its beauty has fled; 
And there breathes a low and plantive sound 
Prom each stream and solemn wood around. 
In unison with their tone, my breast, 
With a spirit of kindred gloom, is oppressed; 
And the sighs burst forth, as I gaze, the while, 
On the crumbling stone of the reverend pile; 
And list to the sounds of the moaning wind 
As it stirs the old ivy-boughs entwined. 
Sighs mournful along through chancel and nave. 
And shakes the loose pannel and architrave, 
While the mouldering branches and withered leaves 
Are rustling around the moss-grown eaves. 

But sadder than these, thou emblem of love, 
Thy moanings fall, disconsolate dove. 
In the solemn eve, on my pensive ear, 
As the wailing sounds of a requiem drear, 
As coming from crumbling altar stone. 
They are borne on the winds, in a dirge-like tone- 
Like the plaintive voice of the broken-hearted, 
O'er hopes betrayed and joys departed. 

Why dost thou pour thy sad complaint 
On the evening winds from a bosom fainti 
As if thou hadst come from the shoreless main 
Of a world submerged, to the ark again. 
With a weary heart to lament and brood 
O'er the wide and voiceless solitude. 


TH£DOV£. V^' 93 

Dost thou mourn that the gray and mouldering door 
Swings back to the reverent crowd no more? — 
That the tall and waving grass defiles 
The well worn flags of the crowdlcss aisles'? 
That the wild fox barks and the owlet screams 
Where the organ and choir pealed out their themes'? 

Dost thou mourn that, from sacred desk, the word 
Of life and truth is no longer heard'? 
That the gentle shepherd who pasture bore 
To his flock has gone, to return no more'? 
Dost thou mourn for the hoary-headed sage, 
Who has sunk to the grave with the weight of age? 
For the vanquished pride of manhood's bloom? 
For the light of youth quenched in the tomb? 
For the bridegroom's fall? for the bride's decay? 
That pastor and people have passed awayj 
And the tears of jiight their graves bedew 
By the funeral cypress and solemn yew? 

Or dost thou mourn that the house of God 
Has ceased to be a divine abode? 
That the Holy Spirit, which erst did brood 
O'er the son of man by Jordan's flood, 
In thine own pure form, to the eye of sense, 
From its resting place, has departed hencej 
And twitters the swallow, and wheels the bat 
O'er the mercy-seat, where its presence sat? 

I have marked thy trembling breast, and heard. 
With a heart, responsive, thy tones, sweet bird. 
And have mourned, like thee, of earth's ffiirest things. 
The blight and the loss— Oh! had I thy wings 
From a world of woe, to the realms of the blest, 
I would flee away, and would be at rest. 



Gone is the burning brightness that unfurled 
Its blaze of glory o'er the noontide world; 
Spent are the beams, that, late, with liviug light, 
In flood effulgent, drowned the aching sight; 
And from the axle of departing day. 
The purple flashes gleam with mellowed ray: 

Morea's hills, lit by the hues of even. 

Lift up their olive-cinctured heads to Heaven; 

The ^gean waves, with many a glittering isle, 

Brighten and blush beneaih the day-god's smile. 

Whose softened beams with farewell fondness kiss 

The turrets of the fair Acropolis, 

And linger on the airy Parthenon, 

When every ray from tower and hill has gone, 

Until o'er Delphi saffron tints, afar, 

Streak the pure West, as sinks his golden car. 

The spirits of the dead, by fancy's power. 
Rise in the silence of this solemn hour, 
And crowd thy wastes, O Athens, as I stand 
Amid thy fanes, and gaze o'er sea and land. 
And muse upon the glory, and the shame, 
That gild and darken thy immortal name. 
Behind yon hills, the plains of Marathon, 
The record bear of freedom's victory won. 



There rocky Salamis still rears its head 

Of crested foam above the Persian dead; 

And the blue waters of the -Egean deep, 

Still dash and murmur round their hero's sleep,* 

And every mound shows where the avenging brand 

Smote foes and tyrants, through the storied land. 

Hail! land of Heroes! Hail! immortal Greece! 
As first in arms, first in the arts of peace. 
Where woke the shell, swept by the Olympian nine, 
And bright-eyed Science piled her jewel'd shrine; 
And where the statue, from the chisel came, 
Enkindled by the true Promethean flame. 
Of matchless form and symmetry, and rife 
With all the rarer attributes of life. 

See where the olives o'er yon ruined walls 
Entwine their shade, rose Academus' halls: 
Within those halls, pure Plato taught and strayed, 
And mused on Heaven beneath that classic shade; 
And where yon river pours its tide of song, 
The truths of virtue, to the listening throng, 
From Socrates, in sweeter echoes, came 
And lit the altar of each breast with flame: 
The sage is gone — the crowds have passed away. 
And now Ilyssus winds his solitary way. 

Above the ruined Pnyx, whose broken piles 

Of marble choke its long deserted aisles. 

The rostrum rises from its rock, where stood 

Demosthenes high o'er the billowy flood, 

^Thenutitocles — the waves of the sea wash away liis tomb. 


90 4|Hl^^^^ AMARANTH. 

And heard, unmoved, behind, the deafening roar 

Of the wild sea, and wilder hosts before. 

Now silence with hushed lip of reverence broods, 

In solemn musings, o'er these solitudes; 

And the tired eagle rests his flight alone. 

And folds his wings, and perches on the stone. 

From which the Orator, like awful Jove 

When stooping down, for vengeance, fiom above. 

Awed Macedonia's proud and bloody czar. 

And hurled the flaming thunderbolt of war. 

Where are the myriads, that through yon defiles. 
Pressed on to hail Athena's reverend piles; 
Or swept, in solemn pomp, along the plain, 
To worship at Eleusis' mystic fanel 
Oblivion hides them; and deep gloom comes down 
Upon the queenly city's fair renown: 
Fallen are her temples — melancholy shines 
The moon's pale beam upon her ruined shrines; 
Low lie her halls once learning's favored seats, 
Their statues ground to dust amid the streets; 
And on her columns, scored by mighty hands, 
The awful "TfiKEL" of destruction stands. 

Great was thy power, O Athens, but it stood 
In arms of flesh distained with human blood — 
Thy boasted knowledge — and thy ethics vain, 
But ear thborn meteors playing round the brain — 
And while thy superstition raised in pride, 
Temples to men and vices deified, 
Among thy deities remained alone 
The one true God, unhonored and unknown. 



And at the frown terrific of that God 

Proclaimed by him who yonder mountain trod,* 

And him who drank the hemlock at Us base,t 

Have fled the splendors of thy storied place; 

Yet he, whose glance — the whisper of whose breath, 

Marks and consigns the nations o'er to death, 

Can smile on this GoigothaJ and relume, 

With light of life, the ashes of the tomb; 

Bid desolation's darksome reign be o'er, 

And freedom shine, and arts revive once more. 

Lo! where yon lamp through ruined casements steals,^ 

Where heavenly truth, a better lore reveals. 

Than taught the gorgeous Parthenon, I see 

And hail the genial dawn of hope for thee; 

There kneel thy children — there the incense prayer 

Of infant lips is borne upon the air. 

And mingled tears of love and pity fall 

For him that shed his precious blood for all. 

There holy precepts of eternal truth, 

Shall fire the minds and bosoms of thy youtJ^ 

Till thou be famed iv virtue, and fair Greece 

Wear freedom's robes, and bear the branch of peace; 

AijAlearning flourish, and the arts again 

Hafiume their sway, and hold their golden reign. 

* St. Paul from top of Mare' hill. 

f Socrates — ^his prison is still visible at foot of Man' hill. 

\ Missionary school and station. 




Through the gazer's breast is stealing 
A pure rapture, sweet and wild; 

While thy face, its charms revealing 
Pair as snowflakes undefiled, 

Speaks a woman with the feeling 
And the lightness of a child. 

With thy locks like sunlight streaming, 
Thou art beauty's self, fair onej 

With thy cheek in beauty beaming. 
From high thoughts and feelings won; 

And thy lustrious eye outgleaming 
A bright sabre in the sun. 

^s the bird in tropic bowers i 

Ever waves its sport W wing, 
'Mid the bright and balmy flowers. 

Without voice of sorrowing; 
So 'mid joy and smiles, thy hours 

Flit, thou light and fairy thing. 

May no cloud of earthly sorrow, 
Shade thy brow or dim with tears 

Thy bright eye; but may each morrow 
Shed a rainbow o'er life's fears. 

And a milder radiance borrow 
From the gentle flight of years. 





■•:"N . 


' 'A 

^<r 'll^t^. 



The fifth crusade was ended, and the religious spirit, 
that had animated thousands throughout Europe, to 
gird on the sword of battle for the succor of the Chrifc 
tians of Palestine, had, in a great measure, become 
extinct. Shortly after^ however, influenced bj the 
exertions of two moi^B, a number of young children, 
of both sexes, assunjHthe pilgrim's habit; — and, with 
scrip and staff, smKn. for the Holy Lan^* This cir- 
cumstance reached the ears of Pope Innocent TIL, and 
quickened the pious feelings of that enthusiastic Pon- 
tiff, and caused him to exclaim: **While the aged and 
powerful slumber, babes and sucklings are awake to 
the glories of Christ's kingdom." An encyclical letter 
was sent around, calling for Christian aid against the 
Infidels; and a Council of the Lateran call^iT; in which 
the Pope announced himself as leader of the Crusaders. 
Cardinal De Courcon, as an itinerant prelate, preached, 
with great pomp and power, the new enterprise in favor 
of the Cross, and induced Andreas, King of Hungary, 
the Dukes of Austria and Bavaria, and many distin- 
guished German bishops and nobles, to arm in the holy 
cause. Tlie Teutonic knights and the w^holc chivalry 


of Germany and middle Europe became warmly inter- 
estedf and signified their eagerness to second the efforts 
of the Cross against the Crescent of Mahomet. 

The affairs of Hungary at this time were in an un- 
settled state; Andreas, the King, was a weak prince, 
entirely under the control of Count Rhetian, a dissolute 
and wicked courtier, who often instigated him to acts 
of injustice and oppression, against which the martial 
.iPritof the nobles, infused by former crusades and 
feudal strifes, disposed them to rebel. As a means, 
therefore, of removing from the kingdom the agitators 
of internal disquietudes, he readily adopted the expe- 
dient which the crusade held out, and, while he deter- 
mined up«i taking with him all the wild and refractory 
nobles, he wisely resolved, before setting out, by the 
exhibition of military games, to gratify the commons, 
that they might remain tranquil during his absence. 
A great tournament was therefore proclaimed in the 
neighborhood of the palace. 

Never, from the unclouded sky of Spring, did the 
sun look abroad on a lovelier scene! Far to the North, 
a succession of mountains belted the country with azure 
zones; — while nearer, the hills descended gradmtlly 
towards the plain, till they terminated in a circular 
ridge, covered with trees, like a vast amphitheatre 
erected for a contemplation of the scenery around. 
This was very beautiful; the winding vale smiling in 
the loveliness of May; the waves of the river Theis 


rejoicing in the sunlight; the venerable city of Her- 
manstadt^ with the battlements and towers of the palace 
of Hungary cresting its temples, like a crown upon the 
brow of age — and the distant campaign country diver- 
sified with cottages, cultivated fields, castles, vine- 
yards, and groves of trees. 

But, within the amphitheatre formed by the hand of 
nature, was another, in the construction of which 
human art and taste had blended all their powers of 
embellishment. It was built of wood upon arches 
handsomely fashioned, and painted in the most tasteful 
manner. The galleries were richly decorated with 
silk, and cloth of gold, hung in festoons; and proud 
banners and scutcheons rich as the clouds of sunset, 
flaunted their gorgeous folds in the winds. The inan- 
imate part of the scene was eclipsed by the display of 
youth and beauty assembled from different parts of the 
kingdom, resplendent in all the brilliance of dress and 
jewels, bending forward from the circular gallery in a 
rainbow of smiles. But, of all the distinguished ladies 
that were present, the young Princess Cornelia was 
the most beautiful, and she sat in the purple pavilion 
of her royal father, with a mild, placid countenance, 
as if alike unconscious of her beauty and the increased 
interest which she herself added to the tournament. 

The King's page at length waved a scarf from the 
top of the royal stand — ^heralds and pursuivants were 
seen gliding over the fields in every direction, arrayed 


in particolored dresses; and the loud burst of martial 
music announced the approach of the King-at-arms, 
and judges of the field, who were to award the prize, 
a Golden Lion, to the successful competitor knight. 
They advanced, accompanied by their retinue, and took 
their station near a small stand covered with crimson, 
on which were placed the shields of the challenger 
knights, four in number: for, by the law of chivalry, 
the shields of challengers were required to be exposed 
some weeks in the neighborhood of the lists, that the 
pretensions of the knights might be canvassed, and 
accusations preferred against such as had proved them- 
selves unworthy of knighthood. 

Presently, the music struck up again, and the gates 
of the lists, at the eastern and western extremities, 
were thrown open for the entrance of the challengers. 
First, came on a sorrel charger richly caparisoned, the 
Count Alleman, a Teutonic knight, in great favor with 
the King, like Count Rhetian, and like him proud, 
malevolent, and wicked. He was tall and powerful, 
with dark swarthy features; and his black piercing eyes 
scowled haughtily upon the knights, as hei glanced 
hastily around the lists, to number the future triumphs 
of the day. He was clothed in Damascene plate- 
armor, highly polished and ornamented in arabesques, 
with a rich inlay of gold; and through the links of the 
steel net-work that united the plates, appeared the 
crimson folds of the silk gambesoon, that enwrapped 


his brawny chest. He rode up to the stand, scarcely 
deigning to lower his lance in obeisance to the king; 
and received from his squire his massive shield, which 
bore the device of the sun and an eagle volant, with the 
motto, "Aspicio imperterritus," — "Fearless I behold.'' 

He was followed by two knights on bright bay horses, 
with beautiful trappings — Reinold de Richer, and a 
low-built, thick Teutonic knight, in a suit of plain 
armor, and a tall Templar, who had seen service in 
Palestine, clothed in heavy mail of steel-links, that 
settled to the graceful proportions of the knight ii 
covered, and reflected in bright flashes the rays of the 
sun. They rode up to the stand together, and received 
their shields; that of the Teutonic knight having the 
device of a battle-axe, with guttfe in gules, and the 
motto — "Fit via vi;" that of the Templar, a cross erect 
upon a lune in detriment, with the motto — ^^AltiorJ^^ 
The fourth challenger did not make his appearance; and 
many were the whispers that passed, and the inqiisies 
made in the galleries. The King-at-arms, Count 
Rhetian, however, without awaiting the advent of the 
fourth challenger, proceeded to assign a station to the 
three who had appeared, and ordered the heralds to 
proclaim the laws by which the tournament was to be 

The usual cry of "largesse" followed this announce- 
ment, and was answered by a shower of gold and silver 
from the spectators. The animating cries of "Sons of 


Chivalry, stand forth! Glory to the brave! Victory to 
the generous! Bright eyes behold your deeds!" arose 
from the heralds, accompanied by the full swell of the 
martial bands. Scarfs were seen waving from many a 
fair hand, as the knights hastened over the field to the 
area which was thrown open to receive them. The 
three challengers took their stand at small intervals 
from each other, and awaited the approach of combat- 
ants to oppose them. There was a considerable delay, 
perhaps less owing to fear, than a desire of giving place 
ta the older and more honorable knights, who might 
wish to take part in the passage of arms, A short 
time after, three knights, of gallant bearing and ac- 
knowledged bravery, advanced, — and, touching the 
challengers' shields with the reverse of their lances, 
determined the contest to be with arms of courtesy, 
viz. with blunted weapons, and lances bearing a piece 
board upon the point. 

ights retired from each otheF in opposite 
dir^tions, and rode to the extreme lists, while the 
spectators encouraged them with animating cries. 
There was then an universal ^silence, as they rushed 
against each other with a shock that threatened the 
dashing to pieces of horses and riders. The advantage 
was on the side of the challengers— for the two Teu- 
tonic knights hurled their antagonists with violence 
from their steeds; and the Templar, aiming at the hel- 
met of the knight whom he encountered, made him reel 

of lUck boa 
'me kni{ 


in his saddle, while he himself remained firmly seated, 
though he received on his cuirass the lance aimed bj 
his adversary. Loud acclamation attested the satis- 
faction of the spectators, and the burst of music sounded 
the triumph of the victors. 

The Templar and his antagonist received fresh 
lances, and, retiring from each other with the encour- 
agement of the heralds, rushed to the encounter with 
redoubled energy. The Templar's horse was borne 
down by the weight of his adversary's; and the Temp- 
lar himself receiving the lance in the lower net-work 
of his breast-plate, was borne from the saddle far 
beyond his steed. The Templar's lance struck against 
the bosses of his opposer's shield, and was splintered 
to atoms. The knight, however, firmly retained his 
seat in the saddle, and was greeted by the universal 
voice of the multitude, as of one man. 

Two of the challengers still remained masters Q&|he 
field, but the discomfiture of the Templar gave enc^r- 
agement to the knights who had remained spectators, 
and the shields of the challengers readily irtet the 
reverse lances of champions accepting their challenge. 
Five courses were run by each, and five several knights 
unhorsed or otherwise vanquished; and the calls of the 
heralds, "Splintering of lances! Love of Beauty! 
Honor to the Chivalrous!" failed to bring forward new 
champions against the successful challengers of the 
field. The King-at-arms, Count Rhetian, asseinbled 


the judges of the field and marshals, and, after a short 
consultation, ordered the heralds to sound — "The 
Count Alexin de AUeman, first in arms, according to 
the laws of chivalry, conqueror of the field, and entitled 
by award to receive the Golden Lion at the hands of 
the Queen of Love and Beauty, the peerless Princess 
of the House of Hungary." 

Ere the heralds sounded, the shrill notes of a clarion 
were heard at the western gate of the lists; and the 
order was for a moment stayed. The eyes of the mul- 
titude were turned in the direction of the sound, and 
above the tops of the low larch trees, was observed the 
nodding of a solitary sable plume. It appeared like a 
thing of life, with regular undulating motion, to move 
along in the air, wholly unconnected with any other 
body, until a bright, star-like blaze was distinguished, 
which appeared to support the plume without consum- 
^^M^ Anon the head of a horseman was visible, 
whose helmet bore the plume and its fiery appendage. 

He was tall, and of a slight, graceful figure, to 
appearance fitted rather for the ballet than the battle- 
field. He rode a powerful coal-black charger, with 
curb, saddle, and horse furniture of the same color. 
His armor was highly polished, and of a glossy jet, his 
coat of mail partly of plates wrought in scales, and 
partly of links, covered a thick gambesoon of black 
velvet, over the collar of which his dark hair fell in 
beautiful shining ringlets. His helmet was black also. 


with the exception of the enormous star formed of 
brilliants, that bore his tall plume — and his dark eyes, 
flashing from his closed visor a light that electrified 
the soul, gave evidence of a spirit fierce and indomitable 
in fight. The multitude sat gazing on the advancing 
knight "with a mixture of awe and admiration, while 
they scanned narro.wly every part of his dress and 
armor with increasing wonder, at finding every thing 
black, even to his gauntlets and spurs. 

The trumpets of the heralds, braying out defiance 
in a blast of death, arrested the attention of the spec- 
tators; and their eyes were turned from the knight in 
black, to what was passing within the arena. The 
King-at-arms raised his baton with a threatening ges- 
ture, and waving it to the marshals, they advanced two 
and two, to meet the knight, with crossed truncheoifs, 
to impede his approach to the arena, while, in the 
meantime, the harsh notes of the heralds' trumpets, 
waxed more awfully loud. The herald that accompa- 
nied the stranger knight, still kept his trumpet to his 
mouth, and the blast, though less loud, was unremitting 
as the swell of defiance which assailed his master. 

Accompanied by his squire, the knight in black con- 
tinued on towards the centre of the lists. His closed 
vizor prevented his features being seen; biit the fixed, 
unmoved position of the head, the fiercer light that 
flamed from his eyes,' burning in their sockets lik# 
liquid jet; the tension of the sinews of the arms and 


legs, the swelling and enlargement of the chest, and 
the proud straightening up, and heightening of his 
body, attested undaunted courage, kindled by indig* 
nation into fury. His steed appeared to participate in 
the spirit of the rider. The prickings of his master's 
spur, and the brazen clash of the trumpets had given 
him the enthusiasm of the battle field. His mouth was 
whitened with foam, the muscles of his breast swollen, 
and his neck proudly arched, as, fiercely champing the 
curb, he spurned the earth beneath him with the loud, 
angry stamping of his feet. 

Approaching the crossed staves of the two marshals 
foremost in advance, he received a blow across the 
head. The ears of the generous animal were bent back 
upon his neck, in rage — ^the fiery breath rolled from 
hi^ nostrils; with a loud snort he sprang forward, and 
with his feet struck to the earth the truncheons from 
the hands of the marshals. Stunned by the violence, 
they gave way, and falling back, formed a line in op- 
position, with the King-at-arms in the centre. Arriv- 
ing here, the knight checked his charger, and came to 
a stand. Every eye of the multitude was riveted upon 
the arena, and with a painful impatience awaited an 
explanation of the strange occurrences of the day- 
Count Rhetian motioned to a herald — the following 
was sounded: ^'Hear! Knight of the Sable plume! 
^urth challenger of the pass de armes of the Abbey of 
ifermandstadt, hear! I, Godolph Rhetian, King-at- 


arms, upon the accusation of the redoubted knight, 
Alexin Alleman, well and trulj made^ do charge thee 
with cowardice and treachery, and proclaim thee here, 
before these witnesses from the four winds, perjured 
knight, false traitor, discourteous gentleman, and 
coward; and order thee to quit these lists of the brave 
and honorable, or thy armor shall be broken in shivers 
before thy face; thy shield, with its arms effaced, trailed 
reversed through th<» dirt, and thou, disgraceful knight, 
covered with the pall in the Abbey of Hermanstadt 
alive, hear the funeral service that attests thy death to 
knighthood, to honor, and to fame!" This scene ac- 
counted for the long absence of the fourth challenger, 
and the studied concealment of his features. The 
trumpets again brayed in dissonance, and the hissings 
of the multitude assailed the dishonored knight. He 
sat motionless upon his steed, wi^h head bowed beneath 
the reproaches that fell upon him, then leaping to the 
ground, knelt before the King-at-arms and the Abbot 
of Hermanstadt, beneath whose cloisters accusation 
had been laid against his shield. 

This act further increased the estimation of cow- 
ardice in which he was held, and King Andreas, whose 
impetuous spirit refused control, demanded that the 
tournament should not be disgraced by his presence; 
and that he should be hurled over the palisades of the 
lists. Presently the knight unloosened the lacings of 
his corselet, and produced a morocco wallet, from which 


he took a small oblong reliquary of gold, and presented 
it to the Abbot. The reverend father took from it a 
small parchment scroll, over which he ran his eye has- 
tily, thea looking into the reliquary, while pious tears 
flowed down his cheek, he seized his crozier« and mo- 
tioning to the King-at-arms and Marshals, fell upon 
his knees, repeating a "pater noster^^ in this religious 
exercise he was followed by all those in the arena, 
with the exception of Alleman, who appeared to regard 
the ceremony with scorn and contempt. 

A circle was formed by the Marshals around the 
Abbot and King-at-arms; and a low, yet most earnest 
conference, that appeared to be going on, left the spec- 
tators perfectly at a loss to comprehend the import of 
what had passed, or was passing. Count de Alleman 
sat upon his steed evidently deeply interested in what 
was being transacted. When about to receive the 
prize of the day, vanity had led him to bare his head, 
that all the multitude might enjoy a contemplation of 
his features; and in his countenance the traces of con- 
cern and anxiety were evident, and occasionally that 
paleness of the cheek which argues fear, and a slight 
quiver of the lip, notwithstanding the haughty curl 
which pride endeavored to maintain. 

The conference ended, and the Abbot and King-at- 
arms approaching the knight, who still remained upon 
his knees, assisted him to arise. And that especial 
honor might be paid to one whose character had been 


unjustly traduced, while one held the stirrups, that he 
might mount his steed, the other bore from the stand 
his shield. This contained a cross, supported by a lion 
rampant, with a sword in one gamb^ and an olive branch 
in the other, for a device; and a short motto in charac- 
ters unknown. His shield also was black; and the 
motto formed of gems similar to that of the helmet. 

The knight in black, with a lance in rest, rode to his 
false accuser, and in a voice that echoed through the 
amphitheatre, addressed him: *<Liar! Forsworn Knight! 
Traitor! Coward and Felon! proven so to be, before 
those assembled knights, justand true, I do further en- 
gage to prove upon th j body. I scorn thy recreant base- 
ness, and though combat with thee as a knight, be infa- 
my, it will be merit to rid the world of a miscreant!" 
So saying, he struck the shield of Alleman with the 
sharp point of his spear, and determined the combat 
to be at outrance; that is, with sharp weapons. 

With a look of bitter scorn, the Teutonic knight re- 
turned: "Back on thy head, I hurl thy charges, and 
defy thee. Coward! I spare thee words, thy proper 
weapons, blows are the answers of the brave. Shrive 
thee thy soul! Look on the heaven? thy last, this day 
thou diest!" Thus having spoken, he laced on his hel- 
met, mounted a fresh steed, and prepared for the onset. 
In the meantime, the heralds in prospect of a recom- 
mencement of the tournament, ventured a second time 
the cry of "Largesse! Largesse! brave and fair!" And 


the golden harvest which they reaped, far exceeded the 
first, a proof of the high interest awakened bj the ex- 
pected combat. 

The arrangements of the parties having been com- 
pleted, the King-at-arms raised his baton to the her- 
alds, and the flourish of a thousand trumps sounded 
the attack, as the champions retired to the extremities 
of the lists, amid the encouragement of the vast mul- 
titude. The contrast was striking; Alleman armed 
cap-a-pie in bright armor, with a white plume, and 
mounted on a milk-white steed. His adversary in 
blacky on an ebon-colored charger. The stretch of 
fancy was not great, to imagine the contest between a 
spirit of light and a spirit of darkness. A breathless 
silence prevailed. The knights spurred their steeds 
towards each other, and met in the centre with a force 
that stunned, for the moment, both horses, while their 
riders remained unharmed, each having splintered his 
lance against the shield of his antagonist. The address 
and equality of the knights elicited the most enthusi- 
astic admiration. 

Having received fresh lances, they again retired, 
and rushed against each other, even with greater im- 
petuosity than before. The Teutonic knight unhurt, 
received upon his shield, the lance of his adversary, 
which went to shivers, while he directed his lance 
against the helmet of the knight in black, and striking 
the star in the centre, shook from it the disintegrated 


particles of the je^vel in a shower of light; and caused 
the knight to fall back in his saddle till his head nearly 
touched the trappings of his horse. The exultation here 
was less than before, and discovered to the haughty 
Teutonic, that, notwithstanding his good fortune, he 
was less in favor with the multitude than the object of 
his unjust accusation. 

They received a third lance from their squires, and 
again retiring, rushed together with a violence that 
hurled to the earth both horses, and enveloped them 
in dust, from the view of the spectators. The riders 
retained their seats, though violently injured by the 
concussion; the Teutonic knight receiving on his hel- 
met a deep indentation from his antagonist's spear, 
while a part of his own spear splintered against the 
shield of the knight in black, and glancing off broke 
through the links of his cuirass, inflicting a wound from 
which the blood trickled down in great heavy drops. 
Plumes, scarfs, and gloves, showered down from the 
ladies in profusion, to animate the combatants; and a 
rich cashmere scarf and bracelet, from the Princess 
Cornelia, while it flattered the pride of the stranger 
knight, incited him to redoubled valor — though he 
staunched not, as bidden, with the precious token, the 
flowings of his wound. 

Ere their horses arose, each unsheathed his sword; 
and steel clashed against steel; — blow followed blow, 
in quick succession, till the whole place echoed with 


the din of their arms. The interest of the multitude 
was increased, and scarfs, plumes, and bracelets, again 
. showered down, as the spectators bent forward from 
the galleries to behold the combat, and shouted and 
cheered the combatants. The blood still continued to 
flow from the knight in black, who had made upon the 
Teutonic but little impression, when in his endeavor, 
by a sudden wrench, to disengage his sword, which 
had become fastened between the plates and links of 
AUeman's armor, the blade was snapped in twain near 
the hilt, and he left, in a measure, unarmed, to bear the 
fury of his foe. Siezing, however, the battle-axe from, 
his saddle-bow, he sprang on his feet (as his horse still 
lay apparently lifeless on the ground,) while at the 
same time, the horse of his adversary arose. The 
Teutonic knight taking an advantage of his situation, 
ungenerous, and contrary to the laws of the tourna- 
ment; spurred his steed towards the stranger knight, 
intending to ride him down; and ere the marshals could 
interpose, the knight in black sunk beneath AUeman's 
charger, which at the same time fell to the earth. 

As the steed fell, however, by a quick evolution of the 
body, the knight escaped from beneath him uninjured, 
and rising, dealt a blow upon his adversary's helmet, 
as he descended, that made him fall back from his 
horse. Notwithstanding the urgent cries of the spec- 
tators, to follow up by blows his advantage, with a 
generosity of soul> noble as it was unmerited, he rested 


his battle-axe till his antagonist arose, and then the 
contest was resumed with quickened ardor. In strength, 
the Teutonic knight was superior, owing to the loss of 
blood which his antagonist had suffered; while in ra- 
pidity of motion and address, he was greatly inferior. 
The cries of the spectators had ceased, for absolving 
interest enchained every faculty, until they forbore to 
breathe, in intensity of feeling. The blows of the 
combatants were unremitting, and apparently with 
equal advantage. 

A wound, received in the fleshy part of the back, 
appeared at length to enkindle the fury of the knight 
in black to the uttermost; like a wounded tiger. He 
sprang forward, and his battle-axe assailed the helmet 
of his adversary with repeated strokes; till the solid 
brass gave way, and the weapon crashing through metal 
and bone, extended at full length upon the sand the 
blood-stained quivering body of the giant Teutonic. 
There was a short pause, and then clarion, trump, her- 
ald, and people lifted up their voices in one simulta- 
neous swell; and mountain, forest, city, hill and valley 
echoed back the sound. 

The knight in black now mounted his horse, which, 
at length, recovered from the stunning shock he re- 
ceived, had risen up, apparently little injured; and 
riding to his herald, bid him sound a challenge to the 
field. No one appearing to answer the challenge, the 
King-at-arms, and judges, awarded the prize of tlie 


day to the stranger knight, and escorted him, amid the 
plaudits of the people, to the royal pavilion, that he 
might receive the prize at the hands of the Princess 

Richly habited in a violet-colored robe, confined by 
a clasp of brilliants, and wearing her laurel crown 
with bandelets of gold, she extended the prize; and 
while her fair delicate hand shook with a slight tremor, 
placed the Golden Lion over the plume of the helmet 
where she had the gratification of beholding her own 
bracelet buckled as a gage. Receiving the prize with 
lowered lance and graceful inclination of the body, the 
knight threw around the shoulders of the Princess her 
cashmere scarf, and, turning to the King of Hungary 
and knights around, said: "Sire, and' ye gallant knights! 
we meet in Palestine with mace and spear against the 
Infidel, to bear the banner of the cross.'* Then de- 
clining the Princess* invitation to s^ banqueting, he 
inclined his head again to the King and the multitude, 
and reining up his charger, rode from the lists accom- 
panied by his squire and herald. 

As he turned from the royal pavilion, the device of 
his shield caught the eye of a spectator in one of the 
lower seats— a female shriek arose, and a young maiden 
in the bloom of youth and beauty, fell down in a 
swoon. This circumstance arrested the attention of 
the multitude, and especially of the King-at-arms, who 
recogmzed in her habit and appearance a Jewess, that, 


contrary to an edict published before the tournament, 
had presumed to attend. She was therefore seized, 
and brought trembling before the King-at-arms, who 
ordered her, as guilty of a serious offence, to be carried 
to his chateau, and there kept in custody during his 
pleasure. The fell horror that o'erspread the cheek of 
the beautiful girl, the wildness of her dark lustrous 
eye,- her tears and entreaties, and the entreaties of the 
young princess in her behalf, were unavailing, — she 
was hurried away to endure the insults of a wicked and 
licentious man. 

Oppressed by the heat, and the emotions that had 
been excited in her bosom, Cornelia threw back the 
scarf that was wrapped closely around her. She perceiv- 
ed something weighty in one of the corners, and unloos- 
ing, discovered a golden plate in which was wrought, 
in enamel, the miniature of a Jewess, that appeared to 
bear a striking resemblance to the virgin removed from 
the lists. On the reverse was the likeness of the 
identical knight in black, divested of his helmet, and 
with features so noble and commanding, that a crown 
could have added nothing of dignity thereto. While 
motives of delicacy disposed the princess to keep the 
matter of the miniature profoundly secret from her 
royal father, the strange adventure prompted her to 
use all her influence with him to rescind the order of 
the Count Rhetian, but his reply was firm and final: 
"Andreas is King of Hungary — Count Rhetian, King- 


at-arms;" and the lovely and innocent Jewess was left 
to her fate. The tournament for the day thus ended, 
the vast cavalcade moved away, followed by the people 
on foot; — ^and the lists were deserted, till the morrow's 
sun should bring again the season of amusement. 

Ezra Emanuel and Jabez his son, had visited Bel- 
grade, on matters relating to money, and being detained 
beyond the time appointed for their return, travelled 
night and day, scarcely allowing themselves time for 
refreshment and repose, that they might reach home 
ere the show of the tournament, in order to protect 
their daughter and sister against the insults which the 
Jews of Hungary had at all times to suffer, but es- 
pecially at such times as the minds of the people were 
awakened in a lively manner against all the enemies of 
the Cross of Christ. They reached their mountain 
residence a few hours before the break of day, and, 
unwilling to disturb the repose of Miriam, quietly 
loosened the secret fastening, and entered. 

Jabez, overcome by weariness, sank down into & 
seat; but the old man, full of affection for his beloved 
child, lighted a lamp, and proceeded to her apartment. 
Perceiving her couch vacant, he gazed around the room 
in a stupor of astonishment, and, wringing his hands 
in agony, by his groanings awakened his son. As they 
searched the house together, narrowly examining every 
part, a knocking was heard at the door. It was opened; 
Miriam rushed in, bathed in tears, with countenance 


pale with sorrow, and garments rent in pieces; and fell 
into her father's arms in an agon j of woe. The tears 
of the father flowed down the channels of his time- 
furrowed face. Kissing the pale, cold cheek of his 
child, he called her by every tender epithet; and con- 
jured her to make known the cause of her grief and 
distressful appearance. 

Amid sobs, that rendered her articulation iucompre- 
hensible, she attempted a recital, but the only words 
she could utter were, "Count Rhetian — Count Rhe- 
tian." Turning to her brother, she shrieked, in a frantic 
voice, "Avenge your sister's dishonor!" then, seizing 
a small stUlette which lay upon a table, buried it to the 
hilt in her bosom. The old man tore his beard in 
agony, and attempted to staunch the wound, but Jabez 
plucked the steel from her breast, and pressing the 
reeking blade to his lips, called on the God of Abraham 
for vengeance; and, catching up his bow and broad- 
sword, rushed from the dwelling. 

The sun was high up in heaven; and his rays, through 
the waving branches of a lime-tree, entered the win- 
dow, and fell tremulously upon the long blood-stained 
tresses of the maid — the light advancing and then 
receding, as if by an instinctive dread of blood. The 
heavy stupor at length passed off; Father Ezra raised 
his gray head from the bosom of his child, and, care- 
fully covering up the corpse, abandoned the dead, in 
anxious concern for the living. 


Knowing that the Count Rhetian, from his office, 
must necessarily be present at the tournament, Jabez, 
like a tiger thirsting for blood, under the cover of a 
tree, awaited his coming at a narrow pass; and as the 
knight, accompanied bj his train, rode proudly along, 
unconscious of impending fate, a well directed arrow 
entered his vizor, and striking the right eye, pierced 
through brain and bone, till the iron point impinged 
against the back of the helmet. ' A faint cry was 
uttered, and the count fell heavily to the earth, ere 
his companions had notice of the winging of the deadly 

The lists were filled with champions. The king and 
cortege had arrived; and all awaited with impatience 
the arrival of the King-at-arms, that the games might 
commence. The sound of trumpets at length diffused 
animation among the galleries; but it was succeeded by 
the slow mournful notes of a military band. The folds 
of a black banner were seen floating in the air, and, as 
it was borne along, appeared the body of Count Rhetian, 
supported by four marshals, and followed by pages, 
carrying his armor in mourning, — his war-horse capa- 
risoned in black; and a long train of retainers and 
vassals, with a man in chains, bringing up the rear. 
The body of the dead Count was laid at the feet of the 
king; and, when his murderer was discovered to be a 
Jew, the whole multitude, with one accord, demanded 


his destruction yfith a violence of uproar that made 
the earth tremble, as with the throes of an earthquake. 

A short conference passed between the king and his 
principal knights, and the Jew beheld the faggots blaze 
beside him, that were to reduce his bodj to ashes; yet 
in his countenance there was nothing of fear. Not a 
murmur' escaped him — ^not a limb— not a muscle be- 
trayed emotion; but with proud look of scorn and defi* 
ance, he returned the wrathful^glances of the eyes that 
glared upon him. 

Fanned by the wind, the fire went briskly up, and 
the work of torture began. Confined to large cylinders 
of wood by the hands and feet, with iron staples, he 
was branded and burnt with red hot bars of iron, in the 
arms and thighs, till the odor that arose from the fried 
and crisping flesh, darkened and scented the air — yet 
not a groan escaped him — not a petition was offered up 
for mercy to his cruel tormentors. As the heated irons 
burnt their way, and descended through the skin to 
the more quick and sensitive parts of the flesh, his body 
was moved with painful contortions; and, in the agony 
of suffering nature, his limbs raised up, and let fall the 
massy timbers to which they were attached, so that the 
bystanders were compelled, by sitting upon them, to 
confine them to the earth. 

The first irons were removed, and others, glowing 
hot, applied to the deep cavities that had been burnt 
into the limbs — also to the more vital parts — the head, 


the stomach, and the heart. Nature, nerved up to the 
greatest endurance, could not sustain the suffering; the 
cries of the tortured Jew went up in appalling shrill- 
ness, outswelling even the fiendish exultations of the 
vast multitude around him; his whole body was con- 
vulsed and quivering; the tensely drawn eye-lids were 
entirely removed from the eyes; and the huge dark 
eye-balls, straining from their sockets, glared round 
in awful glances, more kirid than the lightning. 

The Abbot of Hermanstadt, who had stood by, per- 
ceiving his groans to become weaker and less frequent, 
approached the dying man, and, standing the crucifix 
before him, desired the Jew to abjure his religion in his 
extremity, and win heaven through his sufferings on 
earth. Pain and rage endued the tormented with 
supernatural strength; he started forward with a vio- 
lence that burst one of his eyes, and made it trickle in 
blood and water down his cheek; and tearing through 
the iron staple his hand, seized the cross, and with a 
violent blow levelled to the earth the priest who bent 
over him. 

This act of impiety exasperated the people more, — 
and though his torture afforded satisfaction, yet, in their 
eagerness for his destruction, they called out for more 
violent torment. His arm was accordingly fastened 
down; and the former plates being removed, a great red 
iron cross was taken from the fire, and laid upon him, 
stretching from his head down the body, and across his 


arms. His cries were redoubled as it burnt its way^ 
bat became fainter and fainter, as oppressed nature 
seemed to sink into insensibility. The smoking flame 
went up exhaling its strong fleshy odor, and the dying 
Jew appeared unconscious of suffering. The iron at 
length made its way to the brain; — all the sensibilities 
were quickened and centered into one shock of agony, 
and his dying cry cleft the air with a piercing shrillness 
that struck horror to the hearts of all that heard it. 

Although the Jews, as the early enemies of Christ, 
were hateful to all crusaders, many of whom contended 
that they, as the rejectors of the Saviour, ought to be 
subjected to indiscriminate slaughter, — and, although 
the crime of Jabez Emmanuel appeared heinous in their 
eyes, yet, such was the awful nature of the punishment, 
and such the feeling, half resembling awe, that the 
dead body of an enemy will excite, that few shouts 
followed the last dying agony of the tortured Jew. 
The eyes of the multitude remained fixed upon the 
corse, but their attention was suddenly arrested by a 
cry of appalling terror, and, on turning, they beheki a 
Jew — the miserable father of the dead man, standing 
upon the velvet-colored platform, that had supported 
the shields of the knights. His head was without cov- 
ering; and the long silver tresses, floating in the air, 
gave to his features a wild, yet venerable expression, 
as he rent his garments and tore his beard, in an agony 
bordering upon madness. 


Raising his eyes and hands to heaven, ivith a dis- 
tinctness that rendered every syllable audible, he 
cried: — "Vengeance, Lord God of Abraham, of Isaac 
and of Jacob! — Vengeance upon the heads of this prince 
and people! Unjust, wicked, and inhuman King! Be- 
lievest thou in the punishment of that hell thou preach- 
est up, and yet dost sanction robbery, violation, and 
murder? Thou hast filled thy coffers with my gold!— 
V^ith the blood of a violated daughter, these gray locks 
have been reddened, and my eyes and ears have at- 
tested the dying miseries of my tortured son! Are 
these the inculcations of the Trince of Peace,' in 
whom you profess faith? Did Jesus, (himself a Jew,) 
enjoin the robbery, violence, and murder of the Jews? 
You have made my house desolate! The pillars of^y 
age are broken down; — ^two are lying low in their blood; 
and, alas! alas! agony insupportable! the third, cor- 
rupted by your priestcraft, and imbued with your hy- 
pocrisy, has apostatized from the house and religion of 
his fathers! Yet there is justice in heaven; — ^vengeance 
will come. The God of Abraham will be to you a 
whirlwind and a storm. Pestilence and famine shall 
devour you, and fire and sword consume your house, 
your family, and your people. Tremble and fear!— 
for, as the Lord God liveth, so shall it be done unto 

Awed by the terrible denunciations of the Jew, and 
his wild prophetic manner, they permitted him, unmo- 


lested, to retire. The king him selfevidentlj affected 
by the occurrences of the day, announced that the 
tournament was ended; and the multitude issued in 
one living mass through the gates, divided into innu- 
merable bands and companies, moving to their respec- 
tive habitations. The King of Hungary having arrange 
ed his affairs, left the administration of his kingdom 
in the care of some of the most trusty nobles, and set 
out for Palestine accompanied by the Princess Cornelia, 
his barons, the Teutonic knights, and many German, 
Austrian, and Bavarian bishops and nobles, with their 

Ezra Emmanuel, with that instinctive love of money, 
peculiar to his race, determined upon raising by a levy 
on the subjects, the amount of which the king had de- 
spoiled him; and the natural acerbity of his disposition 
towards the Christians having been increased by the 
wrongs which he had suffered, he seldom failed to glut 
his love of vengeance, as well as money, by coupling 
robbery with murder. All the different passes, for 
many leagues around, were infested by the Jew and his 
marauders, and every attempt to entrap him, proved 
utterly abortive. Apparently possessing ubiquity, 
while closely pursued by the soldiery in one place, his 
presence was suddenly made known in another, many, 
leagues distant, by the mangled throat, and cleft scull 
of the peasant or traveller. Such was his terrible 
power, and exerted in a manner so ruthless and deadly, 


that he was believed to be in league with the prince of 
darkness, or even to be the arch-fiend himself; and the 
council of regency accordingly implored the assistance 
and denunciations of the church against the fearful 
deeds of the blood-stained robber. 

The sun had sunk behind the hills of the west, and 
the gray shades of twilight began to fall softly o'er the 
plain, bringing on that sabbath season of the day to the 
brown sons of toil and the pious worshipper. The bell 
of the abbey had told the hour of vespers, a large mul- 
titude was assembled, and a number of tapers forming 
a cross around the relics of several departed saints, 
brightly burning. After the ceremonies had proceeded 
some time, the abbot took up the relics, and holding 
them in his hands as the people bowed down their 
heads in adoration, repeated in aloud impressive tone, 
the following execration: **Nomine patris, filii, sancti 
spiritusque. Execratus sis in mente ac corpore, in 
membris acspiritu. Obtenebrescant oculi tui qui con- 
cupiverunt, arescant manus quae rapuerunt, debilit 
entur omnia membra quae adjuverunt. Semper labores 
nee requiem invenias, fructu tui laboris priveris. For- 
mides ac paveas a facie persequentis et non persequen- 
tis hostis ut tabescendo deficias. Sit portio tua cum 
Juda trad i tore domini in terra mortis ac tenebranim 
donee cor tuum ad satisfactionem plenam convertatur. 
Ne cessant hx tuse maledictiones scelerum persecutri- 


ces quamdiu permaneas in peccato pervasionis. Amen! 
fiat! fiat!'' 

The ItLstJiat was scarcely uttered, when the tremen- 
dous voice of the robber himself, was heard in the 
chapel. "You that murder with the cross, perish by 
the cross!" — and as the awe-struck multitude lifted 
their heads, the severed head of the Abbot fell upon 
the pavement. A fiendish laugh of exultation followed; 
the Jew swept his sword around carrying before it the 
rows of lighted candles, and with a slow, measured 
tread, retired from the church. Roused to the highest 
indignation, the whole neighborhood joined in pursuit; 
but the Jew was no where to be found, and was not 
heard of after. 

Lest my readers complain, that in my story there is 
too much incident, and too little feeling; and that in 
the descriptions of the deeds of knights and robbers, I 
have lost sight of my fair heroine, and the love making 
part of the story, I will inform them that the Princess 
was deeply interested in the knight in black; and that 
although a certain writer having a good knowledge of 
mankind and womankind also, has said that ''love 
passes to the heart of a lady, through the ears; and 
from the heart, through the eyes," yet in this case it 
was different, for it entered through the eyes, and 
passed out in sighings through the lips. The military^ 
bearing of the stranger, his generosity and courage, 
had excited in her bosom emotions strong, yet unde- 


fined, to which the marked preference of the miniature 
gave the definitiveness and warmth of love. Hoarding 
the secret in her own breast, Cornelia welcomed the 
winds that wafted her to Palestine, and the din of the 
battle-field, where she hoped again to behold the starry 
crest of her knight lighting the path of victory. 

Ere the expedition set out, Pope Innocent III. died, 
and Andreas, in his stead, conducted the crusaders to 
Cyprus, and thence to Acre, where the infidels, who 
had heard little of this crusade, and were consequently 
unprepared to meet them, fell in myriads beneath the 
Christians' swords. Concentrating all his strength 
with a large reinforcement from France and Italy, the 
King lead them from Acre to the siege of the fort, 
built by the Saracens on Mount Tabor, commanding 
a difficult and important pass. Having arrived at the 
foot of the Mountr^drey^ncftmped, and began_maJ^Dg 
the necessary preparations for storming the fortress. 

The King having possession of a strong building, 
whose thick stone walls had evidently been constructed 
as a protection against violence, had given all necessary 
orders for the night, and retired to repose. The Prin-. 
(tess had entered a small chamber, which was fitted up 
as a chapel, and bending before the holy emblem of the 
Christian's faith, her petitions arose from the altar of 
a meek heart, pure and holy as the breath of incense. 
The triumph of the cross, was the burthen of her prayer, 
but her low sweet voice was heard in behalf of her 


father^ and of one who was in her affections as purely 
and tenderly enshrined. Rising from her knees with 
a brow like a rainbow, all peace and beauty, she ap- 
proached the window, and loosening her robes, and 
throwing off the thin figured simarre that covered her 
swan-like neck and shoulders, sat recumbent, resting 
her cheek upon her richly-rounded arm. As she con- 
templated the mild beauty of the deep-blue sky, and 
enjoyed the balmy wind which appeared to wanton 
with the rich clustering tresses that escaped from her 
golden-banded tiara, a slight motion of the arras and 
the noise of a spring broke her reverie; and turning, 
she beheld the long grizzled beard> and terrific features 
of the robber Jew. With rusty scull-cap, corselet, and 
baleful, staring eyes, he looked a demon of the waste, 
rather than a roan; and advancing with drawn sword, 
and a scowl that froze the very blood of the Princess, 
he thrust a cloth into her mouth, and hurried her from 
the apartment through the secret passage. 

Entering the wood with his burden, the Jew hastened 
on, until he came to a large rock, which had been cleft 
asunder by the earthquake, leaving a chasm dark, dis* 
mal, and deep. Throwing a leathern thong around a 
point of the rock, he caught hold, and sunk into the 
frightful chasm, with a rapidity and smothering sensa- 
tion that took away all consciousness from his victim. 
When she opened her eyes, she was in a great rocky 
cave, in the centre of which a fire was fiercely blazing. 


Her inhuman tormentor was intent upon inflicting upon 
her, the same punishment which her father had inflicted 
on his son; and assisted by a Saracen, of appearance 
equally as hideous, was busily engaged in forming a 
pile beside her of the most combustible wood. 

Tearing the gag from her mouth, the doomed Prin- 
cess uttered loud lamentations, which reverberated in 
awful echoes through the cavern. With a demoniacal 
laugh at her fears and misery, the Jew seized the un- 
happy maid, and binding her upon the pile, put the 
flame beneath, which readily caught, and began to bum. 
In this extremity, the thought of the miniature and 
Jewess, darted across her mind, and hope brightened 
in a last struggle for life; she threw the miniature to 
the Jew, but the crackling flame rose fiercely, and she 
sunk into insensibility. When she awoke to conscious- 
ness, the companion of the Jew, and the Jew him- 
self, with cleft skulls, lay before her; she herself was 
supported in the arms of his son and slayer, the knight 
of the sable plume* 

Hillel Emmanuel, the stranger knight, was the eldest 
^lon of Ezra Emmanuel, who was descended in a direct 
line from the last king of the Jews. Early in life, 
when from home, he had sufi*ered an attack of the 
plague; and being kindly attended by a Christian pil- 
grim, when every one else forsook him, he listened 
meekly and gratefully to the teachings of his picas 
benefactor, and became a happy convert to the Chris- 


tian faith. Warm and enthusiastic in temperament, 
he entered into the service of the crusaders with ardor, 
and from his prowess in many conflicts, had conferred 
upon him the order of knighthood. His father Ezra, 
hated and oppressed by the Saracens, and indignant 
at his son, who had renounced the Jewish religion, 
had quitted Palestine in disgust, and, travelling over 
Europe, had at length settled in Hungary. The horrid 
calamities which he had suffered there, in the persons 
of his daughter and son, had affected his mind with 
madness, and, burning with revenge, he had steeped 
his h^uids in blood to satiety. After the murder of the 
priest, he had fled again to Palestine^ either contem- 
plating deeper vengeance against the king, or actuated 
by the desire of again beholding his country, the land 
of promise, endeared to the Jew by a thousand delight- 
ful associations. It so happened that the very hquse 
which the king and suite occupied, had been the former 
residence of Ezra, before abandoning his country. 
His son was acquainted with the cavern into which the 
Princess was conveyed, and attracted by her shrieks, 
rushing in, smote down the Jew and Saracen, and fre^L 
the victim at the time when the fire was about envelop- 
ing her body. 

I will not here attempt describing the feelings oj 
Hill el, when he snatched up the plate containing his 
own, and his sister's miniature from the hands thaj 
it. and in.tW Btrnnirlv-marked features 


deady discovered the person of his own father: nor will 
I attempt to express the joj that filled the breast of the 
King at the rescue of his child, and of the whole army, 
who had been suddenly aroused from their slumbers, 
an^d were engaged in the search. The father in the 
overflowings of a grateful heart, after learning the 
horrid death from which his daughter had escaped, 
tendered her hand to the knight in black, who had won 
her, both by the preservation of her life, and by his for- 
mer services in favor of the Cross. 

Hillel Emmanuel afflicted with horror at the thoughts 
of slaying his father, and endued with a certain divine 
fury, tendered his services to the King, in leading a 
night assault against the fort on Mount Tabor. The 
whole of the forces were soon in motion, and, after 
encount^ng innumerable difficulties in the ascent of 
the mountain^ihey arrived before the fort. The outer 
embankment was soon carried by the victorious crusa- 
ders — the arrows fell in hail of death — sword clashed 
with sabre, and Christian and Saracen grappled in 
deadly conflict; and, while the wild -fire of the Infidels 
streamed through the darkness, falling in deluge of 
TOrture among the Christian ranks — the shouts of be- 
siegers and besieged went in echoes down the vallies, 
like the blast of a tornado. Rallying the forces that 
Xecoiled from the liquid flame, the knight in black, o'er 
meaps of dead and dying, that his right arm had borne 
»owii > tt j ;g ed fy wAcd bis ategd. and planting hi^ s^^n- 


dard upon the bastion, sank oppressed by the weapons 
of the thick ranks that closed around him. 

The descendant of the last Prince of Judah was no 
more, and with him perished all the hopes he had en- 
tertained of the moral renovation of his race, mingled 
with the thoughts of personal aggrandisement, and his 
airy dreams of the diadem and sceptre. Disconcerted 
by the wild-fire, and panic -struck at the death of their 
leader, the troops gave way, and the crescent continued 
to wave in triumph from the fort of Mount Tabor. 

The young Princess did not long survive her lover. 
The oil was wanting, and the lamp of life grew pale, 
flickered — and all was dark. Wasted by sorrow, she 
fell an easy prey to the diseases of the climate, and 
reposed with her lover-knight beneath a beauteous 
mausoleum bearing his arms. There, often, in after- 
times, the eye of love brightened, and the pious orisons 
of the young aspirant in arms, rose upon the dewy 
wing of morning. 





— Ibi tu calentem 
Debita sparges lacryma favillam 
Vatis amici. — Hob. 

Beneath the axle of departing day 
The weary waters, ou th' horizon's verge, 

Blush'd like the cheek of children tired in play; 
As bore the surge 
The wasted poet's foim with slow and mournful dirge. 

On Via Rcggio's surf-beaten strand. 
The late-relenting sea, %Tith hollow moan, 

Gave back the storm-toss'd body lo the land; 
As if, in tone 
Of sorrow, it bewailed the deed itself had done. 

There, laid upon his bier of shells — around 
The moon and stars their lonely vigils kept. 

While in their pall-like shades the mountains bound, 
And night bewept 
The bard of nature, as in death's cold arms he slept. 

■ The tnneftal mom arose with locks of light — 
^ The ear that drank her music's call was chiJl; 

\ The eye that shone was seal'd in endless night; 
^ And cold and still 

The pulses %tood thai 'neath her gaze were wont lo thrill. 


With trees e'en like the sleeper's honors sered. 

And prows of galleys like his bosom riven, 
The melancholy pile of death was reared 

Aloll to heaven; 

And on its pillared height the corse to torches given. 

From his meridian throne the eye of day 

Beheld the kindlings of the funeral fire, 
Where, like a war-worn Roman chieftain, lay 

Upon his pyre, 

The poet of the broken heart and broken lyre. 

On scented wings the sorrowing breezes came, 
And fanned the blaze, until the smoke that rushed 

In dusky yolomes upward, lit with flame, 
All redly blushed. 
Like melancholy's sombre cheek by weeping flushed. 

And brothei-bards* upon that lonely shore, 
Were standing by, and wept, as brightly btlrned 
The pyre, till all the form they loved before. 
To ashes turned. 
With incense, wine and tears, was sprinkled and inumed. 

* Byron and Leigh Hunt. 



While my cheek with joy was flashing, 

Like the morning^s ruddy glow, 
I have watched thy beauty blushing, 

As a peerless rose-bud blowj 
Till the tide of love out-gushing 

Did my surcharged heart overflow. 

Brilliant spread the scene before thee, 
Without cloudnb dim or veil; 

But the blast of death blew o'er.thee. 
And thou sunk beneath the gale, 

And the heart of her who bore thee, 
Trembled o'er thy features pale. 

Oil I bent me o'er thy pillow, 
And a mother's sorrows shed, 

While my tresses like a willow 
Fell around thy dying headj 

And I felt the rising billow 
Of despair my breast o'erspread. 

But the silver chords that bound thee 
To this doating bosom proud, 

Now are broken — death has found thee, 
And the many memories crowd, 

As I stand and see around thee 
Wrapped the long funeral shroud. 



The bright beaming eyes that blessed me, 

Sleep beneath their lids of snow; 
The pure lips that once caressed me 

Now have lost their rosy glow; 
And the tiny hands that pressed me 

Ne'er will press again below. 

I have treasured many a token, 

Of thy infant love, my child, 
Many a word which thou hast spoken, 

Many a charm when thou hast smiled, 
But the golden bowl is broken — 

And thy mother's brain is wild. 

Qod stay me in my sorrow! 

Thou wilt come no more to me. 
And the cold turf by to-xoDrrow 

Shall thy place of resting be; 
Yet from this I solace borrow, 

I will go at length to thee. 

There's a land of deathless flowers, 

By the feet of angels trod, 
Where the amaranthine bowers 

Ever shed their sweets abroad, 
And the sunshine of the hours 

Is the beaming smile of God; 

There, where sickness cannot sever, 

And the reign of death is o'er; 
By the pure and crystal river 

On the bright and golden shore, 
We will meet to walk forever. 

And will part again no more. 



Thou art beautiful, young lady: on thy cheek 
Glows the rich brown of fair Italians girls, 
And the dark tresses shade thy forehead meek, 

In glossy curls, 
Like raven's wings, spread on a vase of pearls. 


And 'neath the dark arched brow thy soft eyes glow^ 
Lake stellar gems that spangle night's blue throne^ 
And from thy rosy-like lips thy accents flow 

In a sweet tone — 
Calypso and her nymphs might fancy for her own. 

Thy sylph-like step and the high spiritual air, 
Bespeak the presence of a noble mind, 
And thy calm face a soul devoid of care, 

Where lie ehshrined, 
Like goodly gems, virtue and truth combined. 

Brightness attend thee, lady; may the founts 
Of science quench thy thirstings, and the muse 
Lead thee to Poesy's enchanted mounts, 

And round diffuse 
Honors and blessings pure as Heaven's sparkling dews. 

As slowly winds a bright meandering stream. 
Through landscapes gemmed with forests and with flowers, 
^ch as the picture of a painter's dream, 

When fancy's bowers 
Are pencilled by the rosy-fingered hoursj 

STANZAS. 139 " 

So glide thy life through friendship's flowery vale, 
Bright, beautiful, from storm and tempest free. 
Dimpled in smiles hy fortune's prosperous gale, 

A tranquil sea 
Bound to the ocean of Eternity. 

And as the sun in western skies sinks low, 
Dying in grandeur on his throne of fire — 
While evening's tears in pearly dew-drops flow, 

And round his pyre 
The grief— flushed clouds pale, languish and expire. 

Such be thy exit— round thy dying head 
May Virtue shed her most benignant ray. 
While Love and Friendship gather round thy bed, 

And mourn thy clay, 
About to "Rest In Peace" till full meridian day. 



How strangely inconsistent are the actions of men! 
While the real benefactors of mankind are often dis' 
regarded — while the philanthropist, like a gentle 
atream diffusing verdure and fertility along its banks, 
glides unheeded on his noiseless way, till, like the 
stream, he hides his head in the Ocean of Eternity — 
while the political economist, whose reasonings, like 
the winds of heaven, winnow and purify the civil horiv 
zon, descends to the grave unmourned — and while the 
inventor of arts and sciences that, like the all-behold- 
ing sun, shed blessings upon all, on whom their light 
smiles, passes from the sight and the recollection 
away — men perpetuate the remembrance of the scourges 
of mankind, and pile the everlasting monumeht to 
those who have swept o'er the earth like a flood — who 
have overturned states, governnients, institutions, and 
theibrms and usages of life with the fury of the tor- 
nado, or, like the volcano, marked their fiery track 
with desolation, and struck with the lurid glare of 
their awful greatness, the sight and the senses of men. 

And as it is at the present day, so was it formerly. 


While obelisk and pillar and pyramid, consecrated to 
posterity the memory of Egyptian heroes, distained 
with massacres and blood — and shrines and temples 
deified those illustrious only for their vices and their 
crimes, to an extent that it was said by one of another 
nation, that it was more difficult in Egypt to find a 
man than a god — yet neither mausoleum nor pillar 
marked the humble resting-place of Theuth, the inven- 
tor of letters, who, more than any Egyptian— more 
than any son of Adam, is entitled to the love and gra- 
titude of mankind, and their everlasting remembrance, 
for the magnitude oi the benefits he has conferred. 

Nor have men been more grateful (so far as exter- 
nal manifestation is concerned) to the inventors of the 
sister-arts of painting and engraving, than they have 
been to the inventor of writing. Not only are memo- 
rials wanting to perpetuate their memories: — ^but obli- 
vion has been permitted to obscure even their names. 
Yet here Ralschin, or Maroumzin, (whichever you 
may be,) of the former, and Melanger, or Laurentius, 
of the latter, one at least of posterity, acknowledges 
the deep indebtedness of past ages and the present, to 
your inventions — and, in doing so, gratefully erects one 
stone to your memories. 

Many are the important uses to which letters are 
applied. Besides the every-day exchange of senti- 
ment, through that mysterious intercourse which 
"wafts a sigh from Indus to the Pole,'' they bind 

.I> ^^ 



While obelisk and pillar and pyramid, consecrated to 
posterity the memory of Egyptian heroes, distained 
with massacres and blood — and shrines and temples 
deified those illustrious only for their vices and their 
^crimes, to an extent that it was said by one of another 
nation, that it was more difficult in Egypt to find a 
man than a god — yet neither mausoleum nor pillar 
marked the humble resting-place of Theuth, the inven- 
tor of letters, who, more than any Egyptian— more 
than any son of Adam, is entitled to the love and gra- 
titude of mankind, and their everlasting remembrance, 
for the magnitude oi the benefits he has conferred. 

Nor have men been more grateful (so far as exter- 
nal manifestation is concerned) to the inventors of the 
sister-arts of painting and engraving, than they have 
been to the inventor of writing. Not only are memo- 
rials wanting to perpetuate their memories: — ^but obli- 
vion has been permitted to obscure even their names. 
Yet here Ralschin, or Maroumzin, (whichever you 
may be,) of the former, and Melanger, or Laurentius, 
of the latter, one at least of posterity, acknowledges 
the deep indebtedness of past ages and the present, to 
your inventions — and, in doing so, gratefully erects one 
stone to your memories. 

Many are the important uses to which letters are 
applied. Besides the every-day exchange of senti- 
ment, through that mysterious intercourse which 
"wafts a sigh from Indus to the Pole,'' they bind 


together the past and the present, and collecting all 
that is truly valuable in science and morality, serve to 
abridge the labors and increase the knowledge of every 
student and moralist, successively, to the end of time, 
enabling the earnest inquirer to comprehend more 
clearly truth, duty and interest, the real objects of 
living— and by a proper estimate of which, we are 
alone fitted to die. 

Poetry has employed her charms to adorn and 
recommend truth and virtue, and to throw a soft 
enchantment upon the otherwise dull, and, often, bar- 
ren pathway of life. 

History is another important subject on which 
writing is employed. It accomplishes over time the 
triumph which the telescope achieves over distance; 
and brings to the eye the great luminaries of other 
worlds. It makes us contemporary with the men of 
all ages and all countries — ^and sketches out, en masse, 
upon its ample canvass, the countless myriads that 
have been swept to dust — leaving the general features 
of their characters and lives for our contemplation 
and benefit. 

But to few purposes have letters been applied, more 
useful and interesting than biography. While history, 
in giving the outlines of a nation, affords a faint idea 
of particular persons; biography, in delineating the 
characters, fortunes and lives of individuals, is enabled 
to exhibit every light and shade, and specify minutely 


all those little natural peculiarities that distinguish a 
man from his fellows. And while biography, in thus 
presenting us with a transcript of the features of the 
mind and the soul, redeems them from oblivion, it has 
powerful auxiliaries in the arts of painting and engrav- 
ing, that snatch from the remorseless fangs of time the 
features of the face, and, stamping them with immor- 
tality, bid the smile of beauty still mantle them, when 
they shall be shrivelled with age — aye, or wrapped in 
the dust of decay. 

What then do we not all owe in general to letters, 
painting and engraving; — and you, Obadiah Leatherby, 
in particular? Yes! there thou art, Obadiah! 'Tis thy 
very self, with thy rounded waxen arms displayed 
like a prodigal beauty — thy tasselled cowl, a le moine, 
and thy apron black and blurred as Vulcan's, falling 
in folds o'er thy corduroys. Thou standest the real 
Obadifth, as I have seen thee in days of yore. 

Look at him, gentle stranger! and if you never saw 
the original — take the word of a friend — 'tis a fac 
simile of the late Obadiah Leatherby. Consult his 
physiognomy! (I would ask thee to study his crani- 
ology, as is the fashion now-a-days, were it not for 
the folds of that reverend cowl which he has upon his 
head.) "Consult his physiognomy! I say. Note his 
brow, observe the movement of his eyes and eye- 
brows, and read the open expression of his mouth, and 
the lines scored upon his cheeks, and if you do not say 


that 'Obadiah Leatherbj must have been an easy, sim- 
ple, good-natured, good-for-nothing kind of a man,' 
why then / will say it for you. 

Well, Obadiah! thy painter and engraver have done 
more for thee, than they have done for some other 
geniuses whom I could mention; they have given the 
features of thy face, and the form of the outward man, 
most true to nature; and now. Oh most mighty TheuthJ 
first of writers, assist me, the last and least of thy 
descendants, to sketch the inner man, the striking 
features of the mind, and also the fortunes of the late 
lamented Obadiah Leatherb v. 

"I never saw the man in my life/' I hear the reader 
exclaim, ''but [ will warrant it an excellent likenesg— * 
it is so much like a cobbler: but who are these on the 
right? — the little man in the hunting-shirt, with a face 
shrivelled as the witch of Endor's, and the one lean- 
ing over him, with the large nose and the larger 

Now, reader! that is right — I am glad to see you 
interested — ^but your curiosity is running into a wrong 
channel; and whereas I had proposed merely to give 
you the biography of Obadiah Leatherby, I shall be 
compelled so to alter my original intention, as to give 
you a small sketch also of the personages respecting 
whom you have made inquiry. Be patient now, ask no 
more questions, give undivided attention, and I will 
tell you the history of the whole. 



Obadiah Leatherbj, the son of Aquila and Abigail 
Leatherby, was born in the village of Baltimore, on the 
22d of July, 1744. I like to be particular in dates, 
and give the day, the month and the year, with all 
accuracy. In answer to the why of the reader, here is 
the wherefore. The day on which the infant Obadiah 
entered the world, was the identical day on which the 
Sun entered the constellation Leo; and his mother, who 
was particularly fond of astrology, immediately pre- 
dicted that her son would be a roarer. Moreover, she 
was confirmed in her opinion, by his being born in a 
remarkable year. Now, it may be well enough to in- 
form the reader that all years which contained any two 
figures alike, were considered extraordinary. 

Full of the idea that her son would one day rise to 
be the *enlightener of nations,' Abigail brought up her 
child with a great deal of tenderness, instilled into his 
youthful mind an aversion to labor, and a love for her 
own particular lore, astrology, until he bid fair to be- 
come as lazy and silly as herself. Obadiah's father 
paid but little attention to his family, and contented 
himself with such enjoyments as a neighboring tavern 
afforded. The genius of our young friend was not, 
therefore, unnecessarily cramped by restrictions: for he 
was permitted to grow up free, fearless and 'wild as 
the young ass' colt.' Dividing his time about equally 
between going to school, fishing in the Patapsco, and 
hunting, Obadiah continued to blossom for greatness, 


in his mother's eyes, until he was fourteen years of age. 
It appeared evident to his mother, that he was about 
to distinguish himself in the worl^ of letters. His 
genius evidently, leaned that way, and was discovered 
in his fondness for her astrological rhymes, for a 
rhyming dream-book, and also some poetical snatches 
which he had learned from his father, such as the fol- 

"And had the flood been liquor good. 

And Noah's sons such lads as I, 
We'd drunk the deluge where it stood. 

And left the ark and Noah dry." 

He was even said to have made, at an early age, 
several couplets, and to be very smart in finding -out 

But Obadiah was destined to meet with obstructiofis, 
as all great men do, in early life. He was deprived 
of both his parents in one year, poor fellow! and was 
left inheritor of the astrological fanaticism of his moth- 
er, and the idleness and passion for strong drinks of 
his father, and— of property not a groat. Many re- 
nowned men have risen without the aid of money, — 
why should not Obadiah Leatherby.^ 

Our young friend fell now under the care of the 
trustees for the poor, and was placed at the dull un- 
poetical trade of shoe -making, with a worthy old gen- 
tleman in the village. So the reader will conclude his 
genius was soon cramped ower the cramping -irons and 
lap-stone. It is hard to take out of the flesh, what is 


bred in the boae: jet Obadiah's master, by a vigorous 
plying of the strap, made laziness ooze out of the 
spirit, while blood sometimes oozed from the back*. 
The consequence was' that, although Mr. Shoeinghom 
spoiled a good poet, he succeeded in making a pretty 
good shoemaker. 

<'JuBt aa the twig is bent, the tree's inclined.'* 

Now, if Mr. Shoeinghorn, who was a very correct 
Quaker, could have had the bending of our young twig, 
he would have made a fine sappling of him; but his 
inculcations were merely as the fork that resists the 
early bent, which, being removed, the trunk in a good 
degree resumes its former tendency. The love of 
poetry and astrology, and idleness and brandy, though 
restrained in Obadiah, by the efforts of our plain j^ro- 
sale Quaker, was not extinguished, but was secretly 
indulged in. In fact. Friend Shoeinghorn 'had scotched 
the snake, not killed it;' and Obadiah only wanted fit- 
ting opportunity and temptation to prove 'Richard's 
himself again.' 

In music, there are seven notes; — ^but, in the 
sound of the lap-stone, only one^ — I therefore need not 
detain the reader long upon the apprenticeship of Oba- 
diah Ifeatherby. There was no variation. It was the 
same dull routineof scolloping leather, twisting thread 
and waxing it, hammering heel-taps, and joining to- 
gether of the soles and bodies of shoes, late and early, 
until the soul and body of Obadiah were nearly dis- 


joined. The poor apprentice thought he had a sad time 
of it. His spirits were too much depressed to admit 
of his indulging the spirit of poetry, until, sometimes, 
in taking home shoes to customers, he dropped in at 
the tavern and obtained a glass; and then his 'genius 
plumed his heavenward flight.' 

But, among Obadiah's greatest privations, was that 
of music. His master being a Quaker, would allow no 
singing in the shop, so he was denied the use of what 
would have been, in some measure, the solace of his 
woes. When he did get out though, he made good use 
of his lungs, until he made the welkin ring again with 
the songs that had pleased him in childhood. 
Xfmct rtxYt^s ryu^u — necessity causes inventionS'^-'yvdLS true 
true in the days of Homer. So was it in the days of 
Obadiah Leatherby, and proved to be so in his own 
history: for, unable to sing in the shop of friend Sfaoe- 
inghorn, he hit upon a happy substitute, the playing of 
his several tunes upon the lap-stone; and although, as I 
said before, it contained but one note, by giving a stroke 
of the hammer to each note, he was enabled to make 
the resemblance of music, to his own infinite relief, and 
the annoyance of his Quaker master. 

But his apprenticeship was at length ended; and it 
seemed that, from habit, he and his master had become 
better satisfied with each other. They concluded an 
agreement, as journeyman and boss, to continue their 
fortunes together. His master had discover^d^ by 



instinct and a peculiar shrewdness of character, (what 
Gall has since scientifically proved,) that, where »dc- 
ality and constructiveness exist in the same person, it 
is no difficult matter to transform the poet, the builder 
of lofty rhyme, to the mechanic— -the builder of lofty 
palaces — aye, or the builder of lowly shoes, provided 
you can overcome the poet's natural laziness. 

Now, being a Quaker; David Shoeinghorn execrated 
all flights of imagination in general, and Obadiah's in 
particular^ yet, although he could not endure his poetry 
of words, he was greatVy delighted with his poetry of 
works. Reader! this is not a hard doctrine. I will 
settle the point. **Poetry is the language of enlivened 
imagination." If this language be addressed to the 
sense of hearing, it is the poetry of words; if addressed 
to the sense of sight, it is the poetry of works. His 
admiration of Obadiah's poetry, in the latter sense, 
discovered good taste in Friend David; for Obadiah 
appeared to have an innate perception of the sublime 
and beautiful, although he had never studied AddisoD; 
and he understood all that Hogarth has written upon 
square and rotund, and straight and curve lines, albeit 
he never heard of Hogarth's name. And his concep- 
tions were sublimely embodied in substantial creations 
of leather and wax. I say, then, David Shoeinghorn 
acted sapiently in retaining Obadiah as a journeyman: 
for, in so doing, he secured the services of one of the 
neatest and best workmen in the country, if not the 


joined. The poor apprentice thought he had a sad time 
of it. His spirits were too much depressed to admit 
of his indulging the spirit of poetry, until, sometimes, 
in taking home shoes to customers, he dropped in at 
the tavern and obtained a glass; and then his 'genius 
plumed his heavenward flight.' 

But, among Obadiah's greatest privations, was that 
of music. His master being a Quaker, would allow no 
singing in the shop, so he was denied the use of what 
would have been, in some measure, the solace of his 
woes. When he did get out though, he made good use 
of his lungs, until he made the welkin ring again with 
the songs that had pleased him in childhood. 
Xfmtt Ttx'^Ai ry%tqu — necessity causes inventions'— y9dL% true 
true in the days of Homer. So was it in the days of 
Obadiah Leatherby, and proved to be so in his own 
history: for, unable to sing in the shop of friend Shoe- 
inghorn, he hit upon a happy substitute, the playing of 
his several tunes upon the lap-stone; and although, as I 
said before, it contained but one note, by giving a stroke 
of the hammer to each note, he was enabled to make 
the resemblance of music, to his own infinite relief, and 
the annoyance of his Quaker master. 

But his apprenticeship was at length ended; and it 
seemed that, from habit, he and his master had become 
better satisfied with each other. They concluded an 
agreement, as journeyman and hoss^ to continue their 
fortunes together. His master had discover€d^ by 



instinct and a peculiar shrewdness of character, (what 
Gall has since scientifically proved,) that, where Wc- 
ality and constructiveness exist in the same person, it 
is no difficult matter to transform the poet, the builder 
of lofty rhyme, to the mechanic— -the builder of lofty 
palaces — aye, or the builder of lowly shoes, provided 
you can overcome the poet's natural laziness. 

Now, being a Quaker; David Shoeinghom execrated 
all flights of imagination in genera/, and Obadiah's in 
particular; yet, although he could not endure his poetry 
of words, he was greatVy delighted with his poetry of 
works. Reader! this is not a hard doctrine. I will 
settle the point. "Poetry is the language of enlivened 
imagination.'' If this language be addressed to the 
sense of hearing, it is the poetry of words; if addressed 
to the sense of sight, it is the poetry of works. His 
admiration of Obadiah's poetry, in the latter sense, 
discovered good taste in Friend David; for Obadiah 
appeared to have an innate perception of the sublime 
and beautiful, although he had never studied Addison; 
and he understood all that Hogarth has written upon 
square and rotund, and straight and curve lines, albeit 
he never heard of Hogarth's name. And his concep- 
tions were sublimely embodied in substantial creations 
of leather and wax. I say, then, David Shoeinghom 
acted sapiently in retaining Obadiah as a journeyman: 
for, in so doing, he secured the services of one of the 
neatest and best workmen in the country, if not the 


verj best. Whether some breakings out of the light 
of Phrenology, in the mind of the worthy man of leather 
disposed him to select him, I cannot say. 

But, reader! do you believe in Phrenology? If not, 
let me convert you to it by an observation of Obadiah's 
head, when you see how it agrees with his character, 
as detailed and to he detailed in his history. See be- 

** side the ear. No. 9, constructiveness strongly devel- 
oped — adjoining that, No. 32, tune, equally strongs 

» adjacent to that. No. 19, ideality, stronger — and, if we 

could lift that envious cowl, and examine No. 18, mat' 
vellousness, I would lay a wager that we should find it 
the strongest development of any of the organs. 

By-the-bye, I think it a good sign, where a young 
man out of his apprenticeship, remains in the employ of 
his former master. For two years, Obadiah wrought 
journey-work with him, and had become quite grave 
and serious, since we are unconsciously assimilated to 
those with whom we live. At the end of this time, 
David died; and Obadiah, who had laid by most of his 
earnings, took his stand, and continued the business. 
Changes took place. I have heard it remarked that 
a man's dress and work-shop, discover his character— 

^1^ and a woman's house, the house-keeper. I have 

\ thought so myself. The plain, Quaker-looking sign of 
David Shoeinghorn, that contained simply his name and 
calling, was taken down, and a dashing sign put up in 
its stead, with the name of Obadiah Leatherby, sur- 


rounded by shoes of all colors, lying in gay confusion; 
and the following lines above, whether original or not, 
I cannot say: 

**Sing! — Sing, ye heavenly muses! 
While I mend my boots ^d shoeses." 

Would not this sign at once proclaim the poet-cobbler? 
But this was not the only change — the shop itself un- 
derwent some revolutions; and, as if to make up for 
lost time, the lap-stone with the accompaniment of 
Obadiah's voice, was going most uproariously, from 
morn till even. 

Young men are often surprisingly attentive to busi- 
ness, at first setting out. They are pleased with their 
new honors, and try to make themselves respectable, 
and increase their stock of worldly gear. The good 
advice of his master had been of much service to him, 
and it was hard for him to lay aside the restraint it had 
imposed. Yet Obadiah would sometimes break out 
and frolic for a day or two. His affairs, however, con- 
tinued to prosper as much as they could with the at- 
tention which he gave them. 

On jjic 8th of August, 1772, he was married to the 
widow Carter. The reason for selecting this singular 
day was, because the Sun representing love, was mid- 1 
way between Leo and Virgo, the representative signs i 
of the two lovers, or nearly so, as the lady strictly 
speaking, could not be called a virgin, having been 
married before. Besides, the year had two sevens in 


it. The honey-moon passed away, as honey-moons 
generally do, and so the succeeding moons, for a sea- 
son. Obadiah, then, spent less time at home, less at 
his shop, and more time with the tavern-keeper, and 
those who assembled at his house, to engage in village 
gossip. Something was going wrong, evidently. Some 
said Re had gotten a scold for a wife — others denied 
it — some attributed it to his natural laziness, and 
others to his love of brandy; and so, while every one 
enjoyed his opinion^ nothing to a certainty was known. 
At length, it was whispered that Obadiah and his wife 
did not live happily together. Although it had been 
only a little more than a year since they had become 
one, yet a neighbor, on going to the house, declared 
that he heard noise enough to dispose him to t^iink 
they were a dozen. 

But what did they find to disagree about? That is 
not hard to answer^ When did persons who wished 
to disagree, feel at a loss for something to differ about? 
Where there is a want of mutual concession, there 
will soon be sufficient cause for umbrage. But, in 
this instance, Tea was the subject matter of dispute. 
Do not be incredulous, reader, for if it set two coun- 
tries to war upon each other, we may readily suppose 
it the cause of family quarrels. 

As is usual in differences between man and wife, 
there were faults on both sides: for, while in spite of 
the voice of public opinion, and of *men in high places,' 


the wife of Obadiah continued to drink warm tea, he 
himself drank cold tea, alias brandy. It will be recol- 
lected that the English Parliament of 1773, had deter- 
mined to permit the East India Company to export 
their tea to the colonies free of duty. The objection- 
able impost^ however, which was laid upon the tea, 
aroused the indignation of the colonies, and disposed 
persons to unite, to prevent all use of it in families* 
Obadiah was a thorough-going rebel, attended all the 
meetings that were held in his village, in any way 
growing out of the oppressions of the mother -country; 
and read and descanted upon the various articles that 
appeared, from time to time, in the Maryland Gazette, 
published in Annapolis, calculated to arouse the people 
to a sense of their danger. 

But, in taking care of the affairs of the country, he 
forgot his own, as happens with public men, generally; 
more than half his time was spent at the tavern, to the 
great neglect of his business. His wife, who foresaw 
that ruin must ensue from his idleness and intemper- 
ance, endeavored to persuade him to purchase 21 small 
house and lot, which was offered for sale in the village, 
that in her dowry, she might have some trifle to 
depend upon, which could not be spent. He had the 
actual sum, three hundred and sixty dollars, in hard 
money, but could not ba prevailed upon to make the 
purchase. Imbibing the spirit and the ideas of the 
writers of his favorite journal, Paca, Chase, Carroll 

if. ' 


and others, Obadiah said, he plainly foresaw a war, 
but he was unwilling to pledge his 'fortune' in the 
cause, however he might have pledged his 'life and 
sacred honor.' He thought, in the event of a war, his 
property might suffer, and he therefore preferred hav- 
ing money, a more portable article. 

Obadiah was a great friend to all liberals, but every 
drinking man must have his croney: Obadiah's was 
Giles Halloway. The reader will presently learn who 
Giles was. Like Xerxes, who declared that he would 
no longer buy figs of Attica, but have figs of his own; 
the colonies came to the resolution that they would 
have no more tea of England — but, if they did use it, 
it should be of their own — and making arrangements to 
prevent any tea being landed, they proceeded to dis- 
cipline the militia, that they might be prepared for any 
emergency. Giles Halloway was the corporal in a 
company so raised. In addition to this, he was one of 
the committee of vigilance, whose duty it was, after 
the manner of the ancient Ephori, to inquire into every 
man's way of life, and see that no tea was used. The 
committee further had authority to destroy all tea found 
in houses, and to break the vessels containing the in- 
terdicted article. 

Obadiah and his particular friend Giles, had spent 
the night at the tavern, as tliey often did; and, in the 
morning, about breakfast-time, went together to Oba- 
diah's house, for the purpose of destroying the obnoxious 



tea, and demolishing the tea-pots. Corporal Halloway, 
after some hemming and hawing, explained the nature 
of his office and his visit; and made Mistress Sarah 
Leatherby acquainted with the fact, that her husband 
had been informer against her. Mrs. Leatherby had 
not gotten up in the most pleasant humor; and the 
appearance of her husband and his friend, after the 
night's debauch, on such an errand, was not calculated 
to improve it. Her name-sake had called Abraham, 
lord, but she greeted her husband in rather a different 
style. I will not mention the title, but suggesting to 
the reader that it began with a D , leave his imagi- 
nation to fill it up. 

She upbraided both, and especially the corporal, for 
carousing on her husband's money, and then coming to 
disturb her in the little domestic enjoyment which 
their intemperance had left to her. But expostulation 
and entreaty were in vain; the inexorable corporal 
proceeded to do his duty; he called for the tea-cady, 
and took up the smoking tea-pot from the table, to 
pour out the contents. Mrs. Leatherby. was enraged; 
and, as the corporal seized the tea-pot, she seized the 
tea-kettle, and commenced a regular sprinkling of the 
legs of the intruders with the boiling liquid. Obadiah 
and the valiant corporal were panic-struck, and rushed 
from the house, pell-mell — one treading upon the other; 
and making good their retreat, reached the shop with 


rather less skin than they had when they entered it 

This was the corporal's first engagement, and was 
rather unpromising, as it proved, however well he 
might stand fire, he could not stand water. But there 
was not all the 'pomp and circumstance of war,' to 
bring his courage to the sticking-place. By the time 
Obadiah* reached the shop, and began to consider the 
manner in which he had acted, the spirit which his 
wife had evinced, and the rapidity, with which the 
man of war run from a woman, his natural good-humor 
returned, and he burst into a fit of loud laughter. The 
corporal did not appear to relish the joke so well. 

After he had been there some time, a stranger enter- 
ed, and desired to be shown a pair of shoes. He was 
a stout little man, of most singular aspect, dressed in 
a hunting-shirt, and wearing a neckcloth of blood red 
silk. Obadiah was struck with his appearance, and 
endeavored to recollect where he had seen him; and, 
on recollecting, it appeared he had seen him the night 
before, in a dream. 

This would have seemed remarkable to any one, 
but particularly so to Obadiah, who put in dreams 
much faith. After trying on a number of shoes, he 
appeared to obtain a pair that were likely to fit; but it 
took up so much time, that the corporal became hun- 
gry for his breakfast, and departed before the stranger 


had fitted himself. As soon as the corporal was gone, 
who often ridiculed faith in omens, dreams and tokens, 
Obadiah proceeded to tell the stranger how singular it 
was, that, although he had never seen him before, he 
knew him as soon as he entered the shop, for he had a 
vision of him in a dream. The stranger observed a 
grave demeanor, and a mysterious silence, while Oba- 
diah's tongue, like the tick of a watch, wound up with 
a certain length of chain, kept clattering away, until 
it had run out the usual chain of dreams, omens, 
astrology, poetry and shoemaking, and then was still. 

By the time Obadiah had finished his speech, the 
stranger, who had all this time been busily engaged 
prying with the shoe-horn, had succeeded ia putting 
on one of Obadiah's best. Now the shoe was a neat 
one, and retained its handsome appearance, despite 
the lever4ike operations of the shoe-horn against the 
fulcrum of the stranger's heel, and the shapeless mass 
of meat on which it was re-lasted; and the delighted 
man of wax, throwing his arms in every variety of 
attitude, looked "things unutterable," was in as much 
ecstasy in beholding the workmanship of his hands, as 
Pygmalion of old, and exclaimed, in the fulness of 
his raptures, "Fits you beautifully! A splendid shoe! 
A very superior article, indeed! Oh! it really fits you 
to a tl It's slick as the skin of your foot, stranger!" 

"Yes! and a good deal tighter," said the traveller, 
then working his toes about, which had been blistered 



in walking, and puckering up his face from pain, 
until from the wrinkles, you might have supposed him 
to have been the grand-father of the Sybil of Cuma, he 
called for another pair of shoes. Obadiah's wrath 
began to be excited, 

"I say, stranger! you have tortured about a dozen 
of my shoes out of shape with your crooked foot, and 
I cannot have my stock spoiled. The shoe fits you 
neatly — it's the very thing." 

" 'Tis not the very thing." 

"Can't I see that it fits you." 

"Can't I feel that it don't fit me." 

**It appears to me to be large enough." 

"It is certain to me that it is too small. You can't 
tell where it pinches me, but I feel it; I can't tell 
where your conscience goads you, when you err, or 
how your wife mars your peace, and yet I am sure— 
for astrology" 

"Astrology! did you say? Why really, now, stran- 
ger, give me your hand — ^you believe in astrology? — 
it reminds me of my poor dear old mother— -rest her 
soul! Well, I am glad I find one person of my way 
of thinking. I thought it strange that you could tell 
me about my conscience and having a termagant for 
wife, and all; why, she scolded me out of doors this 
morning. Buf stranger, do you believe in dreams?" 

"Don't I believe in them, and dream them too. But 
is it not strange, that I should have the vision of you 


Ae identical night that you had one of me? Yes, I 
believe in dreams and astrology, and understand it too; 
and, between astrology and this cane, which you see 
has a Sphynx-head, I can tell any one's fortune. 
You must know Sphynx was a great Egyptian fortune- 
teller. Did you never hear of Sphynx?" 

"Not in all my life; but I'll warrant my mother 
knew all about him." 

"To be sure she did. But look at my cane, you see 
it has a Sphynx head." 

"Certainly! it has a beautiful Sphynx head." 

'*Now look,*' said the stranger, "and see what takes 

As Obadiah gave attention, the stranger breathed 
upon the head of the cane, and the eyes of the monster 
moved. Obadiah was amazed, and opened his eyes 
wider to get a better view, and his mouth with them. 
The stranger immediately after appeared to be under- 
going vioUut emotions, like those priests that sat upon 
the tripod o£ Apollo, and, as if full of inspiration, 
spoke. "Thy. destiny is remarkable; thou wast en- 
dowed with tKe spirit of the Lion at thy birth, but 
thou hast cast aside thy dignity and beaten back by 
Virgo, art declinfed to the Crab, and like the Crab 
thou art going with a retrograde movement. But 
what do I see?" 

"Yes! what do you seer" eagerly demanded Oba- 




"What do I see? I see a contest between Leo and 
Virgo, for a purse. Hark! don't you hear money jin- 
gling; it falls between the Lion's feet." 

The stranger then commenced, and in a solemn 
voice, counted one, two, three, four, five, &c., until 
he counted three hundred and sixty. He said tliat 
was all the purse contained. Obadiah was over- 
whelmed with astonishment at finding the stranger 
able to name even the number of dollars contained in 
the purse, which had so often been the bone of con- 
tention between him and his wife. He had a smatter- 
ing of planetary influence, but whew! what did he 
know in comparison with this new Hermes? 

Either the Sphynx, or his priest had now gotten out 
of breath, for the stranger sat for a minute in perfect 
silence, seemingly unconscious of Obadiah's notes of 
interrogation and exclamation. But presently he 
began again, detailing many things of whicl\ Obadiah 
supposed himself alone conscious, perhapM^cepting 
Corporal Hallo way; and ended by sayijag that his stars 
and Obadiah's ran together in an asfo^faliing manner. 
The shoemaker had always coupled hilrstar with the 
corporal's. At length the stranger, obtained a pair of 
shoes that did fit hhn, in his owR estimation, .ahd 
demanded the price. Fifteen shillings were named as 
the price. "Why do you ask of me," said the stranger, 
"two shillings more than you demand of others.'* 
Obadiah admitted that he was right, and made the 


Deeply interested in the stranger, who appeared to 
understand every thing, and, anxious to hear from 
him, more particularly wherein their fates ran toge- 
ther, he asked him to go with him to the tavern and 
take breakfast, as he was afraid to go home to break- 
fast after the occurrences of the morning, with which 
the reader has already been made acquainted. A 
morning potation put our two friends in good humor 
with themselves, and with each other; and gave them 
a sharp appetite for the hot muffins which were served 
up. They talked incessantly, or rather the stranger 
did; and his wisdom, in the estimation of Obadiah, 
outsolomoned Solomon himself. Obadiah's love of 
the marvellous disposed him readily to accede to most 
matters which his strange friend strangely recounted; 
but when he told him that he believed in, and actually 
could produce the philosopher's stone, Obadiah laughed 

"What! the philosopher's stone," said Obadiah, 
"that turns every thing to gold which it touches? 
Pooh! nonsense! Don't think you can impose stuff 
like that on me. I'm not to be gulled so easily. 
Now let me tell you, althougli I believe firmly in 
planetary influence, and in dreams, I am not such a 
fool as to believe in witches that turn men to asses, 
simply by touching them : nor in the philosopher's 
stone, that converts to gold whatever it is rubbed 
against. Don't take me for a numbscuU!" 


"I do not," replied the stranger. "I take you to be 
a very sensible man; but as we have finished our 
breakfast, let us go to a private room and I will con- 
vince you. I see you entirely misapprehend the sub- 

When they were seated in an upper room, the 
stranger resumed, "I see Mr. Obadiah Leatherby, that 
the film has never been removed from your eyes, that 
you might see the beauties of Alchemy, that science 
which embraces the doctrine of the philosopher's 
stone. To be brief, Mr. Leatherby, my name is 
Hiram Fudge; my residence Massachusetts, and I am 
a Freemason.'* As Hiram Fudge uttered the last 
word, Obadiah's hair began to bristle up, for although 
he did not believe in witches, he was firmly persuaded 
that Freemasons could raise the devil; and he was 
terrified at the idea of being alone in a chamber with 
a man who could call up impey at will. ''As I have 
just said, I am a freemason; and have devoted twenty 
years of my life to the recovery of that sublime 
science, the true spirit and meaning of which was lost 
when- my namesake, Hiram of Tyre, the widow's son, 
was murdered. at Jerusalem. You recollect of read- 
ing of Hiram of Tyre in!| the Bible. I hope you are 
not an infidel! Do you believe in the Bible, Obadiah?" 

"Yes! I believe in the Bible, in dreams and in 
planetary influence, but I don't much believe in stay- 
ing in the room with a man who can raise 'old Harry 
at will.' " 


"But be easy, for you are safe; and I will convince 
you. You recollect of reading, that, at Jerusalem, 
'gold was as the stones of the street, and silver as 
nothing,' from its abundance; but persons have never 
been able to determine where Solomon's Ophir was, 
from which this gold was obtained. Two or three Ophirs 
have been found, but none of them abundant in gold. 
Now, Masonry explains the whole fact; this gold was 
obtained from other metals^ by changing, through the 
power of the Philosopher's Stone; and the two Hirams 
and King Solomon had the base metals, copper and 
iron, &c. transmuted into gold, in foreign parts, and 
brought from Ophir by ships.'' 

*'But say, Mr. Fudge, why have not all persons, 
from the days of Solomon, made gold?" 

"The reason is soon given. The two Hirams and 
King Solomon had solemnly obligated themselves to 
impart the secret to no one, unless by consent of the 
three; and Hiram, of Tyre, being suddenly slain, the 
secret was thus locked up forever." 

"Well, that is satisfactory; but please inform me 
how the gold is changed, and what the Philosopher's 
Stone is, and where it is to be obtained?" 

"The Philosopher's Stone, then, is not a stone at 
all — ^it is a kind of powder — ^but I will explain the 
whole to you. Excuse me, if I should appear lengthy. 
The system of the universe is stupendous, and past 
finding out. Yet, although every thing in it is so 


complicated, the first elements of things are exceed- 
ingly few; and, in order to form any substance, we 
are only to understand the constituent parts, and the 
proper portions, and unite them, and the substance is 
immediately formed." 

"Stop a minute now,'' said Obadiah; "what you say 
now, proves nothing for you — for if I take the proper 
constituents and the proper proportions to form wax 
— ^it does not follow that, if I touch that wax with a 
stone* it must become gold." 

" Yes, you are correct, but you forget that there is 
such a thing as a creative principle, that produces its 
like. There is the male principle and the female 
principle in the animal kingdom,, producing their like; 
and you know, in the vegetable kingdom, there is the 
male principle and the female principle, producing 
their like; and in like manner I maintain, in tlie 
mineral kingdom, there is the male principle and the 
female principle, producing their like, by a proper 
union; in fine, it is a law of nature, pervading the 
universe. The only thing necessary, then, is to 
extract from gold the male principle, and to unite it 
to the female principle of some other metal, and gold 
is produced in any desirable quantity. The influence 
of the planets" — here Obadiah was much interested— 
"upon the metals, is great. In fact, the sun and 
planets are representatives of the metals in the earth — 
the sun represents gold — the moon, silver — and the 


other planets, the other principal metals. These 
planets cause the transmutation of metals in the 
earth; — as a proof, in the same mine we find several 
ores together; — ^it is owing to this cause. And it is 
not wonderful, for if the moon rules the tides of the 
ocean, and influences the mind, as is a fact, surely it 
may be thought to have effect upon the metals of the 
earth. But, is not that an Irish hone you are whet- 
ting your penknife on?" 

** Yes, it is an Irish hone brought over by my grand- 
father; it was a piece of hickory once, but was con- 
verted to stone, in one of the loughs," replied Oba- 

Hiram Fudge triumphantly seized the hone, and 
asked if it was more difficult to convert copper to 
gold, than wood to stone? This was unanswerable, 
and, added to planetary influence, which had been 
descanted upon, made our cobbler a convert to Alchemy 
and the Philosopher's Stone. Reader! do they not 
convert you? Only one thing puzzled Obadiah, which 
was, that the Freemason who must have been bound 
very solemnly by an oath to divulge nothing apper- 
taining to his craft, should tell. him every thing which 
he knew. He, therefore, demanded of Hiram, how he 
could believe the word of a man who had not regarded 
his oath? 

This was asked timidly, as he feared the supernatu- 
ral power of Hiram. The answer w,as very satisfac- 


tor J. Hiram had never been regularly initiated, but 
had obtained possession of a Freemason's books, who 
had died at his house; and, giving almost unremitted 
attention, to interpret the obscurity of the language, 
had at last found a key that unlocked the whole mys- 
teries, and put boundless wealth within his grasp. He 
was now on his way to the South, to find a distant re- 
lation of his father's, who, he did not doubt would 
enable him to put successfully in practice, his amazing 
discoveries. He had always known that there was 
some one whose destiny was linked in an especial man^ 
ner with his own, and he was surprised to find that 
person in Obadiah; and he was confirmed in the reality 
of the matter, by their having a vision of each other on 
the same night. Any metal would answer to com^ 
mence with, but it would take five times as long to 
transmute lead as silver; and as Obadiah had plenty of 
silver, if he would only commence with ten dollars of 
that, and make a trial, they could use any larger sum 
thereafter, if successful. 

There was every thing to induce Obadiah to join in 
the enterprise — he would no longer be compelled to 
bend over his shop-board for his daily bread — ^he would 
be immediately raised to independence — all the pre- 
dictions of his mother were about to be realized, and 
his own aspirations. At all events, should they fail, it 
would be a small loss. 
• Before coming to any final determination, he thought 


lie must see what Astrology had to saj. It was on the 
19th of January— on that day the sun left Capricornus — 
wherefore he came to the conclusion that he was called 
upon to quit the stitching of goat-skins, sheep-skins, 
and all other kind of skins, and follow fortune, where 
fate led the way. Obeying the instructions of Hiram, 
not to let any one know of their agreement — ^not even 
Corporal Halloway — Obadiah went home, and proceed- 
ed out on the Philadelphia road two miles, to a little 
vacant hut near to a black-smith's shop, where he and 
Hiram were to make their first attempt. Hiram had 
not all the necessary apparatus, yet set to work, and 
after drawing several singular figures with his Sphynx- 
head, and repeating some unintelligible language, prob^ 
ably Egyptian, and blowing the fire, and stirring the 
melted silver, and mixing it, succeeded in obtaining 
from the lower part of the crucible a very bright yel- 
low-looking metal. 

Obadiah had kept generally out of the shop][ for the 
fear of seeing some horrible apparition was upon him. 
He could not, in his mind, separate Alchemy and the 
Philosopher's Stone from the Black Art. When he saw 
the shining metal produced, he was in ecstasy; but he 
still felt some misgivings that it might not be gold, until 
he and Hiram hastened back to Baltimore, and under- 
stood from a jeweller, who kept near to the present 
Christ's Church, that it was pure gold. He tested it 
with aqua fortis, and pronounced it the "real grit" 


Never was a man in as mach ecstasy as Obadiah 
Leatherbj; but he had been particularly instructed by 
Hiram Fudge to moderate his joy, as it might prevent 
their success, and make their secret a public affair* 
Restraining himself as well as he could, he thought this 
was the time ' to make a .spoon or spoil a horn,' and 
determined on having the whole three hundred and 
fifty dollars fused at once, and a * tremendous quantity' 
of the gold made. 

The Alchemist prepared himself with a bottle of aqua 
fortis, to test the gold which they should make — and 
Obadiah, with a bottle of brandy, and a boiled ham, 
and a loaf or. two of bread, to stay the clamors of the 
stomach during their labors — and both set out again 
for the place of former operations. When they ar- 
rived, Obadiah insisted that Hiram should fuse the 
whole amount of silver, as it would finish the work at 
once, and make them independent in a few minutes. 
Such is always the way of the world — they think they 
can never get rich fast enough. Hiram stated the 
danger of a failure, and would not consent to melt 
more than ten dollars at a time. 

After making a pretty hearty meal, Hiram set out to 
the shop with his ten dollars, and the bottle of aqua 
fortiss but Obadiah, who did not understand the pro* 
cess of transmitting to gold, and was rather afraid to 
be in the neighborhood of the practice of a science 
which he considered intimately connected with the 


Black Art, was contented to remain with the brandj- 
bottle, and hack away at the ham, the dissection of 
which he appeared perfectly to comprehend. Hiram, 
eyery now and then, came in and pledged Obadiah in 
a cup, at the same time taking but little himself. After 
a time, night set in, and Obadiah's head became heavy, 
and he laid it against the window-board, on which were 
the candle and his purse, that he might rest. In fact, 
his head had not resisted the action of the aqua ignea, 
or fire-water, as well as Fudge's gold had the action of 
the aqua fortis — he was pretty considerably drunk. 

When he had been there a short time, a large serpent 
came into the room, having a head in the form of a 
Sphynx, and began to wind itself around him, and, as 
he shrieked for help, the Author of all evil himself 
entered the room, enveloped in flames, and upbraiding 
him for invading his peculiar province in studying his 
own particular science, was about to bear him off, when, 
by a great exertion, Obadiah roused himself up from 
sleep, into which he had fallen, to perceive with dismay, 
that his purse was gone, and that the candle had burnt 
his coat into the neck, and had set fire to the old house. 

Looking in vain for his purse through the room, he 
hastened down stairs, and to the shop where he ex- 
pected to find Hiram Fudge, but there lay the cruci- 
ble — ^the fire was out on the hearth-stone of ih& tumace^ 
and the alchemist gone; gold, philosophe^inDne, 
Sphynx-head and all. Obadiah thought be dimlHed 



a strong sulphurous smell in the shop, and he came to 
the conclusion, that the fiend who had so opportunely 
called upon him, in visions, to save him from death, 
had appeared in reality to his less favored friend and 
hurried him away. He warmed his shivering limbs by 
the fire of the hut as it blazed up and crackled in the 
midnight air, and then hurried back to the tavern, with 
a speed to which fear gave wings. 

It is always customary, reader, after writers have 
created a difficulty, to explain it away. I suppose I 
must do the same. On the evening before Hiram 
Fudge called at Obadiah Leatherby's store to get a 
pair of shoes, he was at the village tavern. It was 
there Obadiah had his vision of him, although he was so 
drunk that he did not recollect that his bodily eyes 
were, at least open when he saw him. That night, as 
Hiram lodged in the room adjoining the one in which 
Obadiah and his particular friend, Corporal Halloway, 
slept, he overheard all that they said, and so drafted 
his imposture to suit the folly of Obadiah's character. 
I need hardly inform the reader, that the gold which 
he took to the jeweller was not transmuted silver; and 
that having made Obadiah perfectly drunk, he had 
made off with his purse. So it appears that the cun- 
ning and Sphynx-head of Hiram was rather much for 
the credulity and sheep's head of Obadiah Leatherby. 

Obadiah passed the night at the tavern. The villa- 
gers became acquainted with his severe loss, and the 


tidings were soon carried to his poor wife. Long after 
breakfast, he returned to his house. It was on the 
20th January, 1774, — the sun entered Aquarius — the 
man with the watering-pot — the imitator of the sun's 
course entered differently, for Obadiah entered with a 
brandy bottle. His wife, who had evidently waited 
breakfast for him, did not enter with the watering-pot, 
but the tea-pot, about which she and her husband had 
contended so often. 

Sarah Leatherby had been an affectionate wife, but 
the unkindness and intemperance of Obadiah had, in a 
great measure, alienated her affections. She had in- 
treated, she had remonstrated, she had scolded, in 
order to reclaim him, but in vain. He had neglected 
his business — deserted his home — and, at last, lost thiir 
only resource against the emergencies of an unseen 
futurity. She quietly set down the tea-pot on the 
table, and making no reply to the reproaches of her 
husband that fell on her as an ' enemy to the country,' 
went to the cradle of their infant child, and taking it 
up in her arms, burst into tears. Obadiah sat reprov- 
ed by the sorrowful silence of his wife, his conscience 
assured him, as he looked upon his family whom he had 
wronged, that although his wife had been an enemy to 
her country, he had been an enemy to his own flesh 
and blood. He besought his wife's pardon for all the 
past, and proposed that if she w6uld only give up 
English tea, he would forever give up Irish whiskey 


and French brandy. The wife and husband were 
locked in each other's embrace. Thej caught up de- 
canter and tea-pot — the vessels dashed against the 
pavement— and the ' hot tea ' and ' cold tea/ that had 
so often caused dissension and estrangement mingled 
their streams together. 

Obadiah became a changed mUn. He was always in 
his shop, and not merely in it, but working night and 
day. His business extended itself; he had need of 
more workmen; and in the increased attention paid by 
his apprentices and journeymen, owing to his own 
personal oversight, his profits were greater. In fact, 
he gave up poetry, dreams, astrology and the philoso- 
pher's stone, to repair, by hard labor, the breach which 
hit own folly had made in his affairs. Nor was he un- 
rewarded, for his labor and despatch secured a more 
profitable custom. 

He left the other men of the day, as usual, to attend 
the tavern and discuss the politics of the time, but he 
remained in his shop. He was still pleased to hear of 
the patriotic proceedings of the 'rebels,' but although 
he listened to his old friends who came to tell him the 
news, he always worked at the same time. The Cor- 
poral calFed often to see his old friend, yet he could 
never £revail on Obadiah to go to the tavern with him. 
He hta a smile for the Corporal, as before, and a hearty 
shake of the hand, but no time to idle away with him. 
He had thrown away all the earnings of his early life. 


and was intent on making them up. He always re- 
turned from his shop ' erect/ and met his wife with a 
smile, which was acknowledged by the same; and never 
was there a trifle to interrupt their happiness. Sarah 
never complained of her cup of milk, and, in time, came 
to relish it very well. 

The domestic tea subject between Obadiah and Sarah 
had come to a happy termination. Not so the national. 
After some madcaps in Boston, in the overflowings of 
their zeal, had made a 'tea party' for the monsters of 
the deep, the clouds that had hung lowering, burst in 
warfare o'er the land. Troops were collected in every 
direction to repel the invasion. Maryland was not 
behind the other colonies in furnishing men and sup- 
plies; and patriotic Baltimore, as she always has done, 
bore her part. The company to which Corporal Hal- 
loway was attached, at length had orders to march. 
The Corporal left the village with much regret, whether 
from love of Obadiah Leatherby or aversion to English 
bayonets, I will not pretend to say. 

In course of time the Corporal was present in an 
^action, and, unable to run as erst he had doi^froij|>*^ 
the tea-kettle of Mrs. Leatherby, he stood^f^i^mfl|pl» 
manfully, while bullets whistled about his he^4Jttewy 
direcrfon; and when, at length, it came to th^ise of 
the bayonet and he had received a slight wounoliiiAe 
left arm, he hewed about him with the fury of a wound- 
ed tiger, until the dead were piled around him in every 


direction. lie was praised by his superiors — praise 
beo;ot confidence — he determined to become, and actu- 
ally became, one of the bravest men in the company. 
His good fortune and his bravery continued with him, 
until he was promoted to the rank of Major. 

I will not pretend to describe Obadiah's feelings, 
when he first noticed the account in the Maryland 
Gazette. Tears of gratitude poured down his face, 
and he shouted and laughed and clapped his hands, as 
he ran with the paper to the house to tell his wife, until 
she feared that he had broken the compact and taken 
to drink again. He soon had the pleasure of receiving 
a letter from Major Hallo way himself, who informed 
him of his 'hair-breadth escapes' and the honors that 
had repaid them. Obadiah felt every link in friend- 
ship's chain brightened up by this mark of condescen- 
sion in the Major, in recollecting him, and indited a 
loig and affectionate epistle in return, informing him 
of his own good luck, and of the amazing wealth which 
he was likely soon to realize by his indefatigable atten- 
tion to his trade, in which he was assisted by five 
^r^ices and seven journeymen. 

^Obadiah did not find time to talk at the 
t&T<MlR*a4|>efore, he thought as much about his^ coun- 
try AM^er, and was .able to do more; for, when the 
citize|k of Baltimore, during the revolutionary strug- 
gle, almost stripped their o\^n beds to send blankets 
to the suffering army, Obadiah Leatherby sent a large 



box of shoes to Major Halloway, to distribute to such 
of the privates as were without them. Charity often 
has its reward even in this world^-and so it proved in 
this case; for the officers were moved by the magnani- 
mous spirit of a man in humble life; and larg^ supplies 
were ordered for the troops, from the store of Obadiah. 
Leatherby. The increased custom trebly repaid the 

The engagement at York town was the closing scene, 
and ended the war — giving to the free and independent 
States, the right of governing and taxing themselves, 
and of having tea imported according to their own 
notions. After peace was proclaimed, and the army 
disbanded, Major Halloway returned to his native vil- 
lage. His first visit was to his old, particular friend, 
Obadiah Leatherby. He found him and the family of 
the Leatherby s, in a very beautiful, three-story brick 
dwelling, which belonged to them, neatly furnished, 
and in the possession of a valuable stock, with ten 
times as much silver as the Alchemist had run away 
with. Mrs. Leatherby appeared almost as glad to see 
him as her husband, and endeavored to assist in ^nter^ 
taining him; namely, in listening to him; foriAM 
had so many battles and skirmishes to describe," 
no one'else could find opportunity to speak. ^^^ 

He appeared anxious to conciliate the Iady^^;ood 
opinion, patted the cheeks of her little daughtenr« and 
attached his sword to the eldest boy, who appeared to 


be almost as proud of it as the owner. Supper, after 
a time, was ready;-*and the Major looked about for 
the appearance of the tea-pot^ — and when he sat down 
to a white cloth, covered with an abundance of every 
thing except tea, he made his supper with good meat, 
bread, cakes, and pure sweet milk, with the best relish 
imaginable. He could not, however, refrain from think- 
ing that tea was kept from the table out of complimenA^ 
to himself, that he might not be reminded of the scalded^ 
ankles which Mrs. Leatherby had once given him. 

Now Major Halloway was fond of his glass, and 
would have found his imagination assisted a little by 
wine after supper, though perhaps at the expense of 
truth; yet, as every considerate man will respect what- 
ever is done from principle, he was pleased to find 
that a strict regard to t(ieir agreement, had prevented 
the wife from preparing tea, and the husband from 
obtaining liquor, to entertain even ja friend. During 
the course of the evening, the Major proflfered to pay 
Obadiah, himself, for the shoes which he had been so 
kind as to send to the army; bat Obadiah informed him 
4hat he had plenty of this world's goods without, and 
that all h« would exact of him would be the love and 
friendship, in (jllture, which he had shown to him in 
the Mat. 

The Major, unfortunately, had contracted in the 
army a bad habit, which is too common with our mili- 
tary men— swearing — ^and putting a few blessings 



on the head of Hiram Fudge, of alchemical memory, 
he wished to know if Obadiah had ever heard of him. 

''Speak no evil of that man. Major!" replied Oba- 
diah Leatherbj; "if there is a man in existence, to 
whom I am particularly obliged. His to that man. He 
cured me of all my fooleries — dreams, astrology, and 
all — and robbing me of the little I had, discovered to 
the truth that the true philosopher's stoi^e, is in- 
ustry and economy— that these turn all to gold. I 
wish that I could see him, of all men, to thank him for 
what he has done for me." 

Scarcely had Obadiah ceased speaking, when a boy 
came in from the store, to inform him that a tinman 
wished to know if he would trade shoes for some 
' notions in his line.' Obadiah excused himself for a 
few minutes to his friend, and presently returned, 
i^companied by the veritable Alchemist, Hiram Fudge. 
When the Major was informed who he was, he scowled 
at him, as if he would have looked him through, and 
felt as if he could make daylight shine through him, 
with his good sword. Presently Hiram fumbled about 
in his old great-coat, and, sitting down to a table, pro- 
duced a purse, which Obadiah readily recognized as 
having belonged to himself; and cou|^ed out three 
hundred and sixty dollars, somewhat sooner thai| he 
had done before, when under a fit of inspiration. He 
offered to add the interest, but Obadiah would not 
receive it. 


Such a meeting of friends on the same day, and 
squaring up of accounts, was singular. Though he 
had no faith, now, in dreams or astrology either, Oba- 
diah could not help consulting his magna charta of 
planetary influence, just for fun. It was the 2Sd of 
September, 1784; the sun, on that day of balances, en- 
tered Libra. It was strange! 

A project entered the head of Obadiah Leatherby, 
and what do you think it was? Why, to call in 
painter, and have a sketch taken of the ^no^-the Ma 
jor, Hiram, and Obadiah, as they appeared on the morn- 
ing that Mrs. Leatherby had put her husband and the 
Corporal to flight. It was also proposed to have, in 
the background, the dwelling of Obadiah, and Sarah in 
the door, where she remained conqueror of the field. 
The project was carried, nem. con.; and Obadiah, who, 
like Patrick Lyon, gloried in his trade, was tak^iLm 
due character. Hiram Fudge was taken in his hunf- 
ing-shirt; but Major Halloway had an objection to ap- 
pear in citizen's dress — ^which was the actual dress, on 
the morning referred to— and required to be shown 
off in his military coat and chapea% and wearing the 
heavy medal which his hardy valor had won. The 
painter was careful, and the likenesses capital. 
jfc I have nearly come to a close. The Major, full of 

honor, retired on half-pay, and continued to drink 
brandy, to the inflammation of his large nose. Hiram 
Fudge continued to be an itinerant vender of small 


, ^ 


wares; and in time, declined in favor of his son Seth, 
who was the inventor, it will be recollected, of horn- 
flints and wooden nutmegs. Obadiah and his wife 
lived happily together — still abstained from hot tea and 
cold — and, in a good old age, were gathered to their 
fathers, leaving behind them a worthy family, with a 
rich inheritance, in money and in honesty of character. 





" In the desert a fountain is springing, 

In the wide waste there still is a tree; 

And a bird in the solitude singing, 

Which speaks to my sfnrit of thee. " 


Dear sister, though the heartless world's applause 
I covet not, and down life's stream would glide, 
E'en as the bark that leaves no track behind, 
Yet I would make thy fond and faithful breast 
An urn in which love with its sweet perfumes 
My memory may embalm, when the bruised reed, 
Thai oft has borne the buffet of the storm, 
At last is broken, and my fevered pulse 
Shall throb no more with anguish. 

On my locks 
The untimely snows of age are cast, and lines 
Are traced upon my features: yet my heart 
Is grayer than my head, and furrowed o'er 
With deeper wrinkles than deform my face. 

The Grod that formed the soul, alone, can know 
Its secret workings — ^its mysterious pains 
Of impulse and of action, when the blood 
Wrung from the spirit and the oil of life 
In incense offered up to knowledge, make 
The son of genius wearier than the hind, 
Who when the toil of day is done, throws by 
His spade and iieth down to pleasant rest. 


And life to me has been a fevered dream 
Of leslless aspirations — wild desires, 
Corroding cares, fears, phantasies, and hopes 
That lured my yoath, yet mocked my manhood's growth, 
And now, when all the 'life of life' has fled, 
Presentiment and melancholy fold 
Their ebon wings above a heart, consumed 
E'en like the Phenix in its own lone fires. 

Yet still, amid the ruins of the past. 
Dear sister, I have treasured up thy love, 
£'en as a priceless pearl, and on these leaves. 
That here enfold my miniature, have traced 
The features of my mind; while I essayed 
My melancholy song, or tried to string 
The silent harp of Judah, that when low 
My head is laid in ashes, and the chords 
Are broken of the poet's lyre, my form 
And mind, forgotten else by all t]ie world, 
Distinct in all their features may remain 
Within thy faithful memory enshrined. 

E'en as the visit of the bird of spring 
Has been thy presence; and thy gentle smile 
And cheerful voice have wiled my mind from thought. 
Recalled the faded rose upon my cheek, 
And through my heart difiused the glow of joy; 
But thou wilt go away, and I will miss 
Thy smile at evening, and beside the hearth 
Will see thy vacant chair; and o'er my brow 
And melancholy cheek again will fall 
The pensive shadows of a darkened soul. 

And I will woo again the silent night, 
When thou art gone, and weave the plaintive song, 
Whose echoes soothe my melancholy mind. 


And when life's dream is o'er, I joy to think 
That I, who strack to humble notes on earth 
The trembling string, 'mid patriarchs and kings, 
And Israel's royal singer» shall essay 
Heaven's highest theme, and sweep the golden lyre. 
In ceaseless praise, to God and to the Lamb. 


Thought's fount is stirred; and as my vision dwells 
Upon thy disk, light of the darksome mine, 

To fancy's ear fall many a tale it tells 
Of Palestine, 

Land of the goodly olive and the vine. 

Perhaps, when by Euphrates' turbid stream 
The maids of Judah sorrow's vigil kept, 

Upon thy emblemi, by the moon's pale beam, 
They gazed and wept. 

Till spent with tears and woe they laid them down and slept. 

Perhaps amid the temple's wealth, the light 
Flashed back from thee when Heliodorus came 

For plunder; and a steed of awful might 
And wondrous frame. 

Struck the intruder down, with eye and breath of flame. 

Or when for goodly gifts the treasury 
Its cumbrous brazen doors had opened wide, 

Cast in by some self-righteous Pharisee, 
In scornful pride 

Thy gleam fell on the widow's mite that lay beside. 

Perhaps when he, the Lord of Earth and Heaven, 
To man, his creature, tribute deigned to pay, 

Thou by the tenant of the deep wast given. 
When bent his way 

The prompt disciple to Tiberias' distant bay. 


Or when the meek and lowly Jesas chose 
To assert his power; and cleanse his father's shrine, 

Where mammon's altar by Jehovah's rose, 
His hand divine 

O'ertarned thee 'mid the piles on loaded boards that shine. 

Perhaps among the thirty pieces paid, 
The traitor's fingers told thee as he led 

The soldiers to Gkthsemane's dark shade, 
Where Jesus' head 

The sweat and blood poured forth, in deathly anguish shed. 

And thou the price of blood, paid for the field 
Of blood, hast borne to a far unknown clime 

The deed of blood, by blood and vengeance sealed, 
A hideous erime. 

Marked with a blighting curse throughout all after time. 

Whate'er thou art, whatever thou hast seen. 
Thine is a history of tears and woe, 

Like Zion's outcast wanderers thou hast been, 
Nor home shall know. 

Where Salem's palm-trees waved, or Siloa's waters flow. 

Lo! on thy surface flames the censer still. 
But oh! alas! the temple is no more:. ^ 

Fled is the glory from fair Zion's hill. 
Where flowed the gore. 

And sped the torch till ploughs were driven the ramparts o'er. 

Thou bearest the olive. Salem's trees have sunk, 
Smit by the heathen axe, yet still uprears 

Gethsemane its witness, many a trunk 
Wet by HIS tears, 

Gray, scored, with the deep lines of near two thousand years. 


The anger of a sin-avenging Gtod, 
'Gainst those who sparned his Son in fleshly veil, 

Lone wanderer, thou hast published far abroad; 
Oh may thy tale 

Teach the believing heart to bid the Saviour hail. 



^The Nyctanthes, gen. Diandria— ord. Monogynia, is called the Sorrowful 
Tree. Drooping during the day, but blossoming and emitting a delightful odor 
at night. 

Light has faded from the bowers, 

Where the star-like petals gem, 
During daylight's golden hours, 

Flora's purple diadem; 
And nodding are the flowers ^ 

Each upon its bended stem. 

When their full blown pride was flushing, 

In the beamy smilings, won 
By their beauty and their blushing, 

From the gay enamored sun, 
On the air thy heart was gushing. 

Sad and melancholy one! 

Now when silken bells are sleeping, 
Shut and folded from the sight; 

Wet with dew-drops that are weeping 
From the eyelids of the night, 

Thou thy vigils lone art keeping 
With the lamps of starry light. 


And as hope from death doth borrow 

Light, when passing from the world, 
So thy cheek, pale child of sorrow, 

To the breezes has uncurled. 
Brightened charms that by to-morrow 

Will be withered, spent and furled. 

Like the branches of a willow, 

That are bending o'er the dead. 
Shadows hover round thy pillow, 

Where the starry radiance, shed 
Like the frost foam of the billow, 

Gleams upon thy dying head. 

From the gleam of fortune's dower. 

Prom the pageantry of pride, 
From the blaze of worldly power — 

Fame and glory would I hide; 
An'^ like thee, pure, modest flower, 

Down life's gentle current glide. 

When life's setting sun is shining, 

And the shadows of the tomb 
On my heart are fast declining. 

May the spirit's flowers bloom. 
Earth and life, like thee resigning 

With a smile and sweet perfume. 





Or, turning to the Vatican, go sec 

Laocoon's torture dignifying pain, 

A father's love and mortal's agony, 

With an immortal patience blending — vain 

The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain 

And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp 

The old man's clench, the long envenomtd chain 

Rivets the living links — the enormous asp 

Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. — Btron. 

A cRiTiQUB upon this inimitable production of art 
requires some preliminary generalities upon the arts 
of design, which have for their object the represei 
tion of the human form . This introduction is the 
necessary, especially as this chef d'oeuvre*Df the Gre- 
cian chisel, is an embodying and a model of all the 
rarest excellencies of the di£ferent degrees of iht art, 
exhibiting the oppositions and gradations of nature, and 
ideality, sublimity and grace, power and beauty, repose 
and motion, in the greatest variety and with the highest 

"Shade unperceived so softening into shade, 
And all so^forming an harmonious whole, -H 
That as they still succeed, they ravish still." 

As embraced in works of art, we will consider the 
foUom ng prin dpi a , 

; .:.:i':j«i »,M.o(0<S)<m' 



■ i 


.-. ■• t 

- - ,v- t* 

'J^^ ' 

\ / 





Anatomy. — The lowest effort of the art sculptorial, 
(and which is but one remove from the mechanical,) is 
that which aims at the mere representation of the parts 
of the human body, their forms, their dimensions, and 
reciprocal relations. 

Proportion. — Rising a degree above this is the 
knowledge of proportion, which is attained by a dili- 
gent study of the difference of the parts as to form and 
effect, so as to present by symmetry, graduation, and 
contrast, the separate and isolated qualities which, 
taken together, give individuality and character to a 
work of art. Proportion, therefore, may be denomi- 
nated the measure of relative configuration. 

Be AUTY."It will not be sufficient, however, to insure 
excellence in a work of art, that the parts are repre- 
sented according to anatomical rules, with the due 
expression of limb and muscle; nor that the figures are 
consistent, and the arrangement of the parts evince a 
thorough knowledge of proportion 83 to. characteristic 
effect. The subject, in order to be attractive, must 
not only express nature to the life, but of an elevated 
organization, endowed with all those qualities which 
constitute personal and intellectual beauty. 

Repjose. — A work, self-subsistent and unconnected 
in its parts with any thing else, is said to be in repose, 
when it is represented in a tranquil manner. Free 
from all excitement, the features, limbs, and itiuscles, 
are more regular and symmetrical in their dispositions. 


and the eye ^des in easy transitions over .the parts 
with the most tranquil pleasure. Figures of delicate 
beauty, \(rhich depend for effect upon their configura- 
tion, are executed in repose ivith the happiest advan- 
tage. So also are majestic figures; but the feeling which 
thej excite is rather of sublimity than of beauty, and 
depiends upon the appearance of dormant muscular 
force and intellectual vigor. Such is the effect pro- 
duced in the beholder in contemplating the Jupiter of 
Phidias with the thunderbolt resting upon his knees, 
of Juno in repose, or the Goddess of Wisdom medi* 

Motion. — This opens a wider field for the artist 
ihan repose, for it includes not only the expression of 
limb, and muscle, and the draping, together^ with the 
intellectual characteristics of self- subsistent figures in 
mere locomotive energy and exercent action, but pass- 
ing to the animated and impassioned significative, it 
embraces every variety of human action, and the .dis- 
play of the passions as excited by, dependent upon, 
and connected with, other objects. Thus, recreative 
and operative scenes of self-subsistent figures, but 
especially compound tragic ones, are the subjects of 
motive display. It may be well here to observe that a 
solitary figure is not necessarily selftsubsistent. Thus 
a Jupiter Tonans is not self-subsistent. Tl\e attitude, 
the poised thundiefbok in his hand, and the 'Severe and 
awful majesty of his countenance forcibly array before 


US those who have excited his ire, ^tnd are about to 
become the objects of his vengeance. The same may 
be said of the Apollo Belvidere. The sublime energy 
of the frame, and the terrible anger of the countenance 
immediately suggest the writhings of the Python, or 
the agonies of the children of Niobe that have felt the 
force of his vengeful shafts. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The sun In human limbs arrayed, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
With an Immortal's vengeance; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 

Grace. — While beauty, consisting in the due and 
symmetrical configuration of the parts, relates to the 
two first named principles, anatomical structure and 
proportiofh, grace depending upon attitude and gesture, 
has especial reference to the latter principles — repose 
and motion. Oval figures, of gentle curvature, the 
parttf of Which slide into each other by insensible gra- 
dation, are ever most agreeable to the eye. A figure, 
therefore, to be gvaceful, eithei* in repose or motion, 
must not have its parts disposed in straight lines, and 
interrupted by sharp angles, so as-to press upon, con- 
fuse, and encumber each other/but must be arranged 
with such gentle inflections as give* rotundity to the 


portions and secure ease and composure to the bodjr* 
Beauty, in a word, relates to the natural organization, 
grace to the arrangement of parts by volition— either 
of attitude or movement. 

Ideality. — ^Rising above the other enumerated ex- 
cellencies, this completes the mystic circle of the art& 
of design, and stamps acme upon the whole. While 
the former are in themselves merely imitative and re- 
stricted to actual forms, Ideality bursts the circum- 
scriptions of nature, and endowed with 6TC<jf^it?€ power, 
revels in a world of new forms and beautiful creatures 
of its own formatifon. To attain the ideal, the artist 
must possess an imagination strong to conceiTe ele- 
vated subjects, judgmentto>give consistency by propor- 
tion; and reflection and patience, to chasten the parts 
into graceful and harmonious unity. 

Of the ideal there may be said to be two species — 
the natural iJea/and the/mre ideal. The natural ideal 
merely exceeds the bounds of rieality,/and elevating its 
subject above nature, assigns to it ideal iK^grees of 
beauty, and powers of action consistent with them- 
selves, yet superior to and inconsistent with real na- 
ture. The pure ideal represents subjects that are 
imaginative alone, having existence only in the world 
of thought, within suitable limits of form, proportion, 
and grace. The high pleasure arising from novelty 
will always add great interest to ideal figures, as they 
tend to arouse the mind from its dormancy by a sen- 


sual shock that is at once startling and pleasing. To 
the former class belong female figures of loveliness and 
grace surpassing nature, as the Magdalen of Titian and 
Ariadne of Vanderljne — or figures of more than' natu- 
ral power and energy, as the fighting Gladiator of 
Agasia, or the Hercules of Canova. 

To the pure ideal belong such works as "The Last 
Judgment" of Michael Angelo, "Daybreak and Night/* 
by the same, "The Aurora'' of Guido, " The Demons" 
of Fuseli, and •* Madness" and '* Melancholy" by 
Gibber. With these premises we proceed to a notice 
of the magnificent group of the Laocoon. 

With the extinction of liberty in Greece, the arts 
began to decline, and continued to do so until the Ro- 
mans, (after the contest with Philip,)]declared freedom 
to the Grecian states. The people then awoke to 
wonted energy, as from a long slumber, and with the 
re-animating spirit of liberty, philosophy and the arts 
revived. Of the latter, several distinguished masters 
arose, such as Antheus, Polycles, Callistratus, Ages- 
ander, ApoUodorus, and Athenodorus. The last three 
immortalized themselves by the production of the sub- 
ject of our critique, the Laocoon. It was thus execu- 
ted several centuries before Christ; and in the time of 
Pliny, who makes mention of it, was in the palace of 
Titus. During the sacking of Rome by the Goths and 
Vandals it suffered in the general ruin, and was found 


in the sixteenth century, partially mutilated, am<mg; 
rubbish, in the baths of the above*mcntioned emperor. 
It will, therefore, be readily perceived that the Lao- 
coon is a misnomer^ and that, instead of the Trojan 
priest of VirgiFs being the original of the group of the 
Laocoon, the statue is the original of the tragic Epi- 
sode of the ^neid; for it existed long antecedent to the 
composition of that poem. Neither does there appear 
in the historical or mythological accounts of the Trojan 
war by writers before Virgil, any allusion to a cir- 
cumstance of the kind. Hyginus speaks of it — but he 
is of an age subsequent to Virgil, and in fact commented 
upon some of his writings. 

Had any thing of the kind transpired. Homer would 
certainly have woven it into his epic. Besides if the 
principal figure in the group had been intended to re- 
present a priest in the act of offering sacrifice, as Virgil 
describes, he would have been invested, at least with 
the sacred Jila and vittoe. In Grecian, Egyptian, and 
other sculpture, in the absence of all other draping, it 
has been usual to mark distinctively the profession, 
where it can be done without disadvantage— the fillets 
and vittse would certainly have detracted nothing from 
the principal figures. 

It is, therefore, absolutely certain that the Laocoon 
is a misnomer; and that the statue gave rise to the idea 
of Virgil's tragic Episode of the priest of Neptune, is 
equally certain. Indeed in the poet's description of 
the father. 


"Ille simul manibus lendit divellere nodos, 
Clamores simal horiendos ad sidera toUit/' 

we have the very attitude and gesture of the father, 
struggling with mighty energy ^with the fate that had 
befallen him and his children. 

Virgil in his anxious desire to free the ancestors of 
the Romans from the imputation of fatuity in admit- 
ting the Wooden Horse within their walls, while gazing 
upon this stupendous work of art, conceived the happy 
idea of excusing the act by religious superstition, and 
transforming what was merely intended to represent a 
father and his children in the agonies of serpentine 
enwreathment into a divine vengeance, translated (if I 
may use the expression,) the sublime sensual beauties 
of the sculptor into the animated language of poesy. 
But as is the case with all translations, the copy is far 
inferior to the original — ^and Virgil, who has imitated 
with felicity many of the excellencies of Homer, and 
in many places even surpassed him, appears to have 
had transfused into him but a small portion of the di- 
vine power which created the living, moving, animated, 
and sublime group of the sculptor. 

The first impression produced upon beholding the 
Laocoon, (for, I suppose, *' Usus erit norma loquendi") 
is that of extreme terror. An electric shudder per- 
vades the frame on discovering ourselves in proximity 
to animals,- dangerous, both on account of their venom 
and their magnitude. But the pain of the first sensa- 



tion is lessened on perceiving that we ourselves are out 
of danger, as the serpents have infolded others; and 
accordingly, in the idea of present security, we are 
enabled to contemplate the scene before us with more 
complacency, and with an interest, melancholy yet 
pleasurable. The mind being thus prepared to embrace 
the work as a whole, is struck at once with the unity 
of the tout ensemble — the athletic form of the father, 
the limbs of the pubescent son> and the fragile figure 
of his younger brother, all interlaced and convolved in 
a wreath of living death, by the scaly folds of their 
serpentine assailants. The endeavors of the sufferers 
to extricate themselves by their own power, and the 
invocations of foreign assistance, for which the children 
turn confidingly to their parent, and he again to the 
gods, tend further to increase the unity, while the pe- 
culiar form of the serpents, impressing by their motions 
uniform force upon the whole group have the same 

Appalled by terror, a passion which absorbs all others 
by reason of its intentness, the eye, at .first, sees only 
the objects that cause the emotion; then, as the first 
feelings begin to subside, it encompasses the group in 
its unity, after which it passes with gentler affections 
to the observance of the work in its details; and varied 
emotions of pleasure and pain succeed and relieve each 
other, as the designs and execution of the artist are 


tilt L^OCOOlf. 197 

Afler the fimjA|Mvjsiiis of passion are over, and a 
glance has ^flVViBi at thf«hole mass, the eye in- 
stinctively re^tuDOii ike pridKal figure in the group. 

jrapet at thfjvhole mi 
UMQ ike pi*wV&l figui 
t th^ father^Wstincfn 

which is th^HT th^father-^TOstinctively, I say, for 
the primordi^ t2i\xwE of subjIlM^ are to be found in 
him lyore th^ io ttther of thj^f||DS, whether we con- 
sider his size, his wiscnliir power, his energy of action, 
his physical or intellectual suffering, or the moral dig- 
nitv of his effort to free his children from the death, 
that is pressing upon them. 

The figure of the father is that of a man past the 
vigor qf inaflkn4&''. Ti^erefore his diminished ability 
to exert p(^l[ ^MB iftM jMm^ y |ttii((|; cleefeiifliFlBie pa- 
thetic inter^Blbf tHP^HMB^He is still robust^ 
however, anotne ^|||||Hfirioff of th^ muscles shows that 
paternal fear and \J^ have nerved his energies up to 
the highest effort. Enlaced by both serpents, witk his 
left hand he has seized the one by the ned^» ^''ftyfk* 
from its position, appears to have bees ready to p 
upon the elder son» and grasping the body with his 
right hand, endeavors, by a violent exertion, to sunder 
the chord that binds him. But, as this wrench is made 
(and the development and tension of the muscles of the 
arms and breast, as well as the repose of the brawny 
and firm-set feet, show the violence of the effort,) the 
serpent irritated at the grasp, turns and seizes him 
with his teethi and there is a revulsion which changes 
the figure from the active to the passive or suffering 


state. The serpent ■^ him Ib tite side, just below 
the ribs, a point int^ely aermitite; sbJ there- is a 
convittsive shudder,' flaBina; a reaction Ol" the whole 
frame— starting thej^St fuot I'roia its pASitiun, making 
'thJilAdf shrink to Mnp II site side, the chest adrance, 
aMdWHhouldiran^i^&d tieclriie, while thafontncted 
'brows, the corrugated fotelK^, and tike' distorted 
countenance, exhibit the extremes of pain, terror, and 
despair *" 

"Mixed with the tender angnisli nature snoops. 
Through ilie wrung bosom of ih^ySigftnan," 
for t^a|^^ selMet|fttiflfclfl:Jfti Hmfci'' S^. 

VSpsc'eni i^^H^^^^B^^^P^reAt once 
in Laocoon the tenffii^H^^^^^ nftif,' on'd the 
incipiencj of present snffRli^H^ltf^^tbXps. did 
any work of art exhibit the nflt^led workings 5f * 
mightier nature. The energies of his frame excited by 
■u|ippal|nal solicitude and fear, he has grappled 
^W the drnd*!ifofi4ef) to merge iictibii'in adfTering, 
affection In unavailing regret, ciMh^ In despair; yet 
even his agonies cannot wholly rob his features df stern 
dignity, but disclose, as he turns his face heaveiiward, 
fc sctne worthy of the gods, a great and good man 
strJtdUing with his fate. The sensatioft^produced by 
a comMnplation of this figure is terror: ' The giant 
self- con tiding energies of a manly natur«, battle with 
the destroyer, and in the horror anu intral dignity of 
the act, we are not touched with tendernees of feeling. 



Wis see him in the instant of receiving his wound^ and 
shudder as ^e teeth of the serpent meet together — ^his 
suffering is too great, too instantaneous, and terrible to 
excite compassion— a mightier, wilder, all-absorbing 
feeling fills the soul — sublime terror. 

The second figure of the group in interest, is the 
younger son. We turn to it with softened feelings 
after dwelling upon the figure of the father, and sen- 
sations less painfully pleasurable, are perceived — thosd 
of compassion. The figure is just such an one as is 
calculated to excite that emotion — for compassion is 
based upon love and admiration; and the slight, grace- 
ful and beautiful form'^f the youthful sufferer; is calcu- 
lated to inspire us att)nce with love, and touch us with 
pity. All Qur. softer sympathies are awakened at see- 
ing 'the contortions of a child, who, by reason of his 
age, has Aot^in&Uectual vigor to sustain suffering, and 
who can oppose to the involving and wound-meditating 
monster only the feeble resistance of a gentle nature. 

His feet are interlaced painfully, and a coil of the 
serpent passes around the arms. The right arm is 
uplifted, a position caused partly by the constriction 
of the monster, and partly by a vain effort of the child 
to extricate himself. The head of the serpent winding 
its fold in closer embrace, jand threatening to bite, 
appears around the right brdast, and the sufferer gently 
pushes it back with his left hand, influenced alike by 
the pain of greater compression, and the fear of its 


bite. The movement is a gentle one, (as is shown bj 
the position of the hand,) and suits the nature of the 
child, who has neither the intellectual nor muscular 
power fitted for vigorous action. Pain and fear, which 
often madden manhood into supernatural exertion, 
diminish, on the contrary, the powers of youth. The 
slight resistance of the hand, then, is admirably con- 
sistent with the fears and feelings of the child, who, 
regarding the bite of the serpent with more horror than 
its constriction, would be careful not to aggravate his 
own sufferings by irritating it to inflict a wound with 
its teeth. 

Such is the force of sympathy in gazing upon this 
figure, that we almost feel ourselves compressed by 
the serpent coil which is ready to crush the tender 
limbs of the devoted sufferer; and the heart yearns 
within us as we behold the tortured features of the 
child in the instinctiveness of filial confidence turned 
to the father for aid, who has hitherto been his shield 
and support. 

Awed and terror-struck by the horror of the father's 
situation, and softened and subdued by the melting 
miseries of the younger son, the feelings experience a 
degree of relief in turning to the third figure, where 
Hope begins to relieve the darkness of the scene of 
passion. Inlaced slightly by the left foot, and the 
right hand, there is to the elder son considerable 
chance of escape, and the hope of this comes in like a 


cordial to enliven and renovate our exhausted feelings. 
His attitude is that of flight, and the position of the 
right leg and foot show with what vigor he is endeavor- 
ing to effect his disentanglement. 

His face is turned to his father with an expression 
of inconceivable horror. The attitude of the head and 
the expression of the countenance are determined by the 
reaction that has taken place as the father is stricken b j 
the serpent. The convulsive recession of the father's 
body from the bite of the serpent, which enfolds both 
him and the arm of the elder son, arrests the latter, 
who is struggling to escape in a diflferent direction, his 
head is instantaneously directed towards his father, 
and his face pictures the horror of the scene which he 
beholds. His situation is rather that of a spectator, 
as he is less painfully en wreathed, and has great hopes 
of escape, and we look upon him in some respects like 
ourselves — ^being, personally, interested the least of all 
in the terrors and sufferings of the sublime spectacle. 

The artist has wisely selected the most appropriate 
time for the development of his creation. He has 
chosen a moment in which the figures are in fugitive 
motion, and by shutting and opening the eyes, we 
animate the group, and appear to behold the living, 
moving mass before us. The effect is also the same 
when it is viewed by the uncertain light of torches. 

The judgment of the artist is shown also in the 
graduated size of the figures, and the appropriateness 


and variety of suffering exemplified in each, according 
to their respective ages and strength. The aiAlime 
and terrible are well committed to the powerful and 
athletic frame of Laocoon, as he is best fitted to exhibit 
the extremes of action and suffering. The pathetic is 
displayed with great effect in the sufferings of the 
younger son, who excites more compassion than could 
be excited by either of the other figures; and the elder 
son has the chances of escape, who could not awaken 
powerful emotions by action; nor by suffering stir all 
the compassion of the heart as is the case with his 
younger brother. 

In all the figures strict conformity to anatomical 
rule is observed^ the parts of the body are duly repre- 
sented, and the muscles, quiescent or active, properly 
developed with their interior and exterior configura- 
tions, under all those modifying appearances, which 
the passions are calculated to effect. The artist has 
also finely observed the law o( proportion as to charac- 
teristic effect, in the grouping parts; the character and 
distinctive expressiveness of the several figures are 
given in the most perfect and effective manner. There 
is also in the group and in its component figures, 
repose, and motion, voluntary and involuntary — motion 
of the former kind beijig excited by fear and a desire 
to escape danger — ^that of the latter by pain. We are 
further presented with beauty of form, and grace of 
attitude; but the highest effort of the artist has been in 


that which admitted of the highest effort— the ideal, — 
and in this we meet with a charm surpassing all others 
in the display of conflicting passions elevated above 
nature, and mingled in moving, melancholy beauty. 

Never, perhaps, did any group exhibit in like per- 
fection the sublime, the beautiful, and the pathetic, 
with all the varieties and excellencies of the arts of 
design, so disposed by graduation and contrast as to 
diminish or increase the effects desired to be produced. 

As a whole it may be considered as superior to 
any work of ancient or modern times. The right arm 
of Laocoon is of burnt clay, and was restored by Ber- 
nini. There are besides this many other restorations; 
the right hand of the elder son, the end of the nose^ 
and part of the belly; the right arm of the younger son, 
the end of his nose, and several of the toes of the left 
foot, were restored by Cornachini. It may be proper, 
in conclusion, to say that for some of the ideas adduced 
in this notice of the Laocoon^ I am indebted to Goethe, 



<'My mother! At that holy name^ 
Within my bosom there's a gush 

Of feeling which no time can tame, 

A feeling which for years of fkme, 
I would not, could not crush.'' 


Amid this world of care and pain, 

Of treachery and guile, 
Where vows are breathed to break again. 

And friendship is a wile — 
Where flattery disguises truth, 
And envy wounds with aspic tooth. 
And hate with demon smile — 

I would my weary head recline, 

Mother, upon thy bosom's shrine. 

A mother's breast no change can know. 

In sunshine or in tears; 
Her smile's the same in youth's warm glow 

As in the frost of years: 
At least such have I proved thy breast, 
By manhood's weighty cares opprest. 

Or bowed with youthful fears; 
The love of others has grown chill — 
Thine is unchanged, and changeless still. 

Though gentle Spring with healing art 

Bids faded nature bloom. 
She cannot heal a broken heart, 

Nor the dim eye relume; 




MYMOTHER. * 205 

The fragrance of her spicy breath ^ 

Cannot restore the cheek that death , | " 

Has marked out for the tomb: 
Long ere the summer-breezes blow, ^ 

This fragile form may be laid low. 

My miniature I leave to thee, 

Not that it may recall 
My features to thy memory— 

Thou wilt remember all; 
To others anxious to forget 
I would not wish the task to set 

Of memory. The pall— 
The show of grief-^the funeral tone— 
They'll leave me to oblivion lone. 

Of all the goodly sons that grew 

Around thy smiling hearth, 
And filled thy soul with joy, how few 

Hold yet a place on earth* 
Gone are the forms on which you smiled, 
Their voices, and their rapture wild, 

And hushed their cheerful mirth; 
And soon you may be called to mourn 
Above another^s marble urn. 

And yet, above my early grave, 

I would not have thee weep — 
JJThere fortune's tempest cannot rave, 

Nor sorrow break my sleep* 
Ere long thy sainted form will come 
And join me in the silent tomb. 

And angel- wings will keep 
Their vigils o'er our sleeping dust — 
For God and heaven laid up in trust* • 





f ■ 

In stately majesty thy shaft kspires, 
To hold companionship with cloud and sky. 

And wins the blush of mornii^'s early fires, 
And the last glances of the day-god's eye, 
When on the horizon fades the purple dye 

In hues of glory to the light clouds given: 
How, like thy patriot's own sublimity, 

Thou risest in the atmosphere of even, 
Above the lowly earth to lose thyself in heaven. 

Oppression has not wrested from the hands 

Of poverty a boon to royal pride; 
War has not garnered up from wasted lands 

Her spoils where carnage swept in purple tide, 

For servile hands to rear a pile to hide 
Ambition's end— or gild a hero's name: 

Thou art the gift of freemen far and wide. 
By freemen reared — ^made sacred by hU fame. 

As altars sanctify their offerings by their flame. 

The mausoleum's pile — the pyramid 

With its l)soad base outlives the names of kin|^^|ft 
Who vainly hoped beneath the rocky lid TP^Tr^ 

To escape the blighting of Oblivi(m's wings — - • 

Thine is the fame, oh! Washington, which springs 
From godlike deeds— thy name in every clime. 

Graved on the heart, when age revolving biings 
The adamant to dust, throughout all time, 

Shall freedom's watchword be— eternal and Sfbblime . 



Thy glory was immaculate of guilt — 

Thy greatness was a blessing to mankind — 
The blood which thy victorious falchion spilt, ''- 


Flowed not to pamper an ambitious mind, 

But in libations fell for liberty designed: 
And when the olive bound the laurel bough, 'i 

The camp was for the senate hall resigned: 
There truth and wisdom having wreathed thy brow. 

Thou went a second Cincinnatus to the plough. 

As in the musing twilight hour I stand, 

And gaze upon thy statue, thickly crowd 
Upon my breast the miseries of the land; 

And in deep prayer my inmost soul is bowed, 

That thy pure spirit would itself enshroud 
In glory to some modern Numa's eye, 

v^nd calm the storm of strife and faction loud, — 
Chase from our land misrule and anarchy, 

And bid the nation live in peace and harmony. 




<< Before thy mystic altar, heavenly truth! 
I kneel in manhood, aa I knelt in youth." 

Truth, although less dazzling in its sphere of action 
than many of the virtues, is perhaps the most important 
of all: for without it the others can have no permanent 
existence. It gives firmness and stability to the whole 
fabric of human excellence, and exerting, in morals, 
the law which cohesion does in physics, binds together 
the moral elements of the universe. And even when 
the other virtues have yielded — when in the devasta- 
tion of passion they have been involved in promiscu- 
ous ruin, should the love of truth remain erect and 
unscathed like the goodly column of a ruined temple, 
let not the philanthropist despair — the pedestal remains 
on which the statue of honor may again be elevated, 
the rocky foundation stands sure on whiob the moral 
superstructure maybe reared again in its proportions, 
in integrity and beauty. ♦> 

The reflection that we are all dependent u^^bch 
other, and obliged to exercise a mutual confiolrce, 
serves to show the importance of truth, — since the 
happiness of social intercourse, nay existence itself, is 
suspended upon it; and its dignity is evident from its 


being the proper use of the high prerogative of speech, 
vouchsafed by the Almighty to man in contra-distinc- 
tion to the other animals of his creation. 

Should the following lines tend, in any degree, to 
illustrate the force and beauty of this virtue, of which 
every thing that is fair and pure, either in nature or 
art, may be considered a type, or give an additional 
motive for the practice of its dictates, the author will 
have obtained his desire and find sufficient compensa- ' 
tion, in the reflection that he has thrown his moral mite 
into the great treasury of human happiness. 

"I am glad to notice the rapid improvement in your 
reading, my son," said the widow, as the little boy 
closed the book in which he had just concluded his 
evening lesson; and she parted the golden ringlets of 
his hair, and kissed his fair forehead, while the eyes 
of the child brightened, and the smile of gratified pride 
and filial affection, shed a sweet expression over his 
soft features. 

But there was another person present that shared in 
the pleasurable feelings of the mother — the grandfather 
of the child, who had returned from a foreign consul- 
ate, lb spend the remnant of his days with his only 
daughter; and hi8 praise served to deepen the blush that 
tinged the transparent cheek of the young scholar. 
** Yes! you read well, George!" said the old gentleman, 
" and if you make the same progress in other studies, 
you will soon be fit for the counting-room of the mer- 


chant, or a clerkship in some of the offices of jour 

** Grandfather," replied the youth, " I try to improve 
in all my studies, but I like reading better than any; 
for I learn many wonderful things; and, then, I have 
to read to mother every evening, who always tells me 
some pretty moral or revolutionary story when I have 
read my lesson well. But some months ago," continu- 
ed the boy, " mother received from one of the cities, 
the large picture which you see hanging over the 
mantlepiece. She would not explain to me what the 
painting represented, but promised as soon as I knew 
enough of the history of our country to tell me a beau- 
tiful story connected with the picture, which would be 
upon Truth, and a true story too. So grandfather, it 
is to be a moral story; and from a knowledge of our 
history being required to understand it, I suspect it is 
a revolutionary one; but what pleases me most of all, 
it is true; mother says nothing is really good that has 
not some truth in it." 

The heart of the good old man was stirred within him 
when he perceived the intelligence of his grand-child, 
and the pains his daughter had taken to impress^ upon 
his young mind, the leading principles of morality and 
virtue. He pronounced a silent blessing upon mother 
and child; and taking the latter on his knees, exhorted 
him ever to preserve the same reverence for truth, which 
his mother had inculcated. 


«' Oh! I always try to speak the truth, '^ replied the 
child, " for the Bible says * God is truth; and hateth 
whomsoever maketh a lie:' but," said he, resuming the 
subject which to him was so full of interest, "you 
cannot tell, grandfather! how much I have thought 
about that picture, and how I have stolen whole hours 
from play to read and study Parley that I might be able 
to understand the story. And you need not think it 
strange, for I assure you there is something very ex- 
traordinary connected with that picture. You see that 
strange -looking building in the background. Well, 
about a year ago, as mother and myself were going in 
the stage to Boston, we passed through a village, in 
which s|^e pointed out a house exactly like it, and said 
there was something of great moment connected with 
the house, which she would one day tell me; and as she 
said it, the tears stood in her eyes.'* 

We listen with unalloyed pleasure to the simple lan- 
guage of youth, we enter into their little interests, 
cares and perplexities, in the very spirit of childhood; 
and watch with complacency the varied expression of 
their features, as they brighten with the light of enthu- 
siasm, or are shadowed with care or anxiety— it is 
therefore not strange, that the grandfather listened with 
silent pleasure while the stream of his grandson's 
conversation flowed on in an even and uninterrupted 

" To be sure, the figure in front appears to be a man's 


igure, jet I have often thought the face very like 
mother's. Don't jou think so too, grandfather?" And 
as he now turned his eyes from the painting and looked 
up in his face, the youth exclaimed, '*La! grandfather! 
I would think the picture like you, but the hair is black; 
and your hair is white" — as he said this he played with 
the grey locks that hung in curls from his temples. 
" And the face of the picture is smooth; and yours is 
wrinkled/' he continued, as he ran his soft little fin- 
gers, in the confidence of youthful innocence, along 
the deep furrows that time had ploughed in the vene- 
rable features of his grand sire. 

"However, I will hear the story, this evening, I ex- 
pect; for I have just 8;otten through Parley the second 
time, and can tell the principal events of our history, 
at least — ^the discovery, the landing of the Pilgrims, the 
wars with the French and Indians, the taxing of the 
colonies, the disturbances about tea, and the battles of 
Lexington, Concord, Bunkerhill, and others— down to 
the closing scene at Yorktown. But you and mother 
must examine me, and see if I know enough of history 
to hear the story. And, now, grandfather! I am glad 
you are here; I shall enjoy it so much more, and I think 
you will like it, too, for, indeed, mother can tell a 
beautiful story.*' 

The examination was referred to the old gentleman, 
who assumed his spectacles, and commenced the task 
with sundry misgivings for the ability of his grandson, 


to accomplish what he had undertaken. Contrary to 
his expectation, however, the young scholar replied 
promptly to all interrogatories, and the grandfather 
concluded with the most lively admiration of the memo- 
ry of the youth, and of the service which Peter Parley 
had rendered, in adapting histories so important to the 
comprehension of children. 


" Well, my son, if your grandfather thinks you have 
sufficient knowledge of history, I will tell you the story 
which has been promised so long; and I am equally 
pleased that your grandfather is permitted to be pre- 
sent with US to hear it.'' 

In the commencement of the differences between the 
American colonies and the parent country, many per- 
sons were disposed to advocate the cause of Great 

"But they were traitors, mother!" said the child, 
interrupting her, "for Peter Parley says so.'* 

"How traitors, George?" asked the grandfather. 
"There is truth in action as well as speech, and if they, 
conscientiously, believed it wrong to resist the enact- 
ments of the English Parliament, were not their actions 
true, and they themselves lovers of their country?" 

"Not exactly. Grandfather! Believing a thing to 
be true does not necessarily make it true, for I heard 
a little boy, in reciting his multiplication table, the 


igure, jet I have often thought the face very like 
mother's. Don't jou think so too, grandfather?" And 
as he now turned his eyes from the painting and looked 
up in his face, the youth exclaimed, 'La! grandfather! 
I would think the picture like you, but the hair is black; 
and your hair is white'' — as he said this he played with 
the grey locks that hung in curls from his temples. 
" And the face of the picture is smooth; and yours is 
wrinkled/' he continued, as he ran his soft little fin- 
gers, in the confidence of youthful innocence, along 
the deep furrows that time had ploughed in the vene- 
rable features of his grandsire. 

" However, I will hear the story, this evening, I ex- 
pect; for I have just gotten through Parley the second 
time, and can tell the principal events of our history, 
at least — ^the discovery, the landing of the Pilgrims, the 
wars with the French and Indians, the taxing of the 
colonies, the disturbances about tea, and the battles of 
Lexington, Concord, Bunkerhill, and others— down to 
the closing scene at Yorktown. But you and mother 
must examine me, and see if I know enough of history 
to hear the story. And, now, grandfather! I am glad 
you are here; I shall enjoy it so much more, and I think 
you will like it, too, for, indeed, mother can tell a 
beautiful story.'' 

The examination was referred to the old gentleman, 
who assumed his spectacles, and commenced the task 
with sundry misgivings for the ability of his grandson, 


to accomplish what he had undertaken. Contrary to 
his expectation, however, the young scholar replied 
promptly to all interrogatories, and the grandfather 
concluded with the most lively admiration of the memo- 
ry of the youth, and of the service which Peter Parley 
had rendered, in adapting histories i^o important to the 
comprehension of children. 


" Well, my son, if your grandfather thinks you have 
sufficient knowledge of history, I will tell you the story 
which has been promised so long; and I am equally 
pleased that your grandfather is permitted to be pre- 
sent with us to hear it.'' 

In the commencement of the differences between the 
American colonies and the parent country, many per- 
sons were disposed to advocate the cause of Great 

"But they were traitors, mother!" said the child, 
interrupting her, "for Peter Parley says so." 

"How traitors, George?" asked the grandfather. 
"There is truth in action as well as speech, and if they, 
conscientiously, believed it wrong to resist the enact- 
ments of the English Parliament, were not their actions 
true, and they themselves lovers of their country?" 

"Not exactly, Grandfather! Believing a thing to 
be true does not necessarily make it true, for I heard 
a little boy, in reciting his multiplication table, the 


igure, jet I have often thought the face very like 
mother's. Doa't jou think so too, grandfather?" And 
as he now turned his eyes from the painting and looked 
up in his face, the youth exclaimed, 'La! grandfather! 
I would think the picture like you, but the hair is black; 
and your hair is white" — as he said this he played with 
the grey locks that hung in curls from his temples. 
" And the face of the picture is smooth; and yours is 
wrinkled/' he continued, as he ran his soft little fin- 
gers, in the confidence of youthful innocence, along 
the deep furrows that time had ploughed in the vene- 
rable features of his grandsire. 

" However, I will hear the story, this evening, I ex- 
pect; for I have just 8;otten through Parley the second 
time, and can tell the principal events of our history, 
at least— the discovery, the landing of the Pilgrims, the 
wars with the French and Indians, the taxing of the 
colonies, the disturbances about tea, and the battles of 
Lexington, Concord, Bunkerhill, and others— down to 
the closing scene at Yorktown. But you and mother 
must examine me, and see if I know enough of history 
to hear the story. And, now, grandfather! I am glad 
you are here; I shall enjoy it so much more, and I think 
you will like it, too, for, indeed, mother can tell a 
beautiful story.'' 

The examination was referred to the old gentleman, 

who assumed his spectacles, and commenced the task 

with sundry misgivings for ttve ability of his grandson, 


to accomplish what he had undertaken. Contrary to 
his expectation, however, the young scholar replied 
promptly to all interrogatories, and the grandfather 
concluded with the most lively admiration of the memo- 
ry of the youth, and of the service which Peter Parley 
had rendered, in adapting histories so important to the 
comprehension of children. 


" Well, my son, if your grandfather thinks you have 
sufficient knowledge of history, I will tell you the story 
which has been promised so long; and I am equally 
pleased that your grandfather is permitted to be pre- 
sent with u8 to hear it.'' 

In the commencement of the differences between the 
American colonies and the parent country, many per- 
sons were disposed to advocate the cause of Great 

"But they were traitors, mother!" said the child, 
interrupting her, "for Peter Parley says so." 

"How traitors, George?" asked the grandfather, 
"There is truth in action as well as speech, and if they, 
conscientiously, believed it wrong to resist the enact- 
ments of the English Parliament, were not their actions 
true, and they themselves lovers of their country?" 

"Not exactly. Grandfather! Believing a thing to 
be true does not necessarily make it true, for I heard 
a little boy, in reciting his multiplication table, the 



other day, say that seven times six made forty-four, 
whereas the truth is seven times six make forty -two. 
But when a person acts according to his convictions, 
his actions are true, so far as he himself is concerned, 
that is, he acts from principle, though under wrong 
impressions of duty. Mother has told me, there are 
two kinds of truth. — What do you call them mother?" 

"Relative and absolute, my dear." 

"Yes! that is it, grandfather; when we act conscien- 
tiously, under wrong impressions, it is relative truth, 
so far as our intention is concerned: and when we act 
conscientiously, under proper impressions, it is cAso- 
lute truth." 

*'A very nice distinction, George! but can you show, 
wherein it was not conformable to absolute truth, to 
continue in allegiance to Great Britain, and wherefore 
persons in so doing, in opposition to the general wish 
of the Colonies, were not lovers of their country? Had 
not the mother country the same right to govern the 
colonies that a parent has to govern a child? Would 
you rebel against your father, if he was living, or 
refuse to obey your mother?" 

'*No! grandfather! I hope not. My parents were 
always too kind to me. Being a little boy, however, 
I am ashamed to contend against one so much older 
and wiser; yet if I may express my opinion freely, I 
would say, I suppose the abuse of any right would, in 
^^ric/: justice, annul it. There is a little boy at our 


school whose father was always getting drunk, and 
beating his wife and children half to death, and spend- 
ing their money; and the law interfered and took away 
his property, and appointed a guardian for himself and 
his family. You see he ceased to have the right of a 
parent over a child, from the abuse of it. And since 
you have mentioned my dear father that is dead, he 
used to say to me, that when I grew up and became of 
age, I would then have no one to control me, but I 
would govern myself; and until that time he would 
govern me for my good. Now, although England had 
the right to govern America, which a parent has to 
govern a child, yet as she abused the right, like Job 
Long, the right was naturally lost; and the Colonies 
having grown up and become of age, had a right to 
govern themselves, as I shall have when I grow up to 
be a big man and am twenty-one years of age." 

" Really! grandson! your mother has told you moral 
stories, and taught you moral philosophy to some pur- 
pose. Your discrimination is nice; and your justifica- 
tion of the conduct of the Colonies ample, and the 
more striking from its simplicity. But what do yon 
say of those Americans who took part with England 
from conscientious motives?" 

"Why I think, grandfather, they were enemies to 
their country, although they desired to be friends— 
their actions were the result of wrong impressions. 


They were unintentional traitors, erring on the side of 

" Well, you appear to be right George, and now let 
us hear the rest of the story; for our discussion inter- 
rupted your mother, ere she had well commenced. I 
thihk she must begin again that we may fairly hear 
the whole." 

The widow who had sat, all this time, listening, 
with deep interest, to the above conversation, com- 
menced the story again as requested. 

In the commencement of the differences between the 
American Colonies and the parent country, many per- 
sons were disposed to advocate the cause of Great 

Here the little boy gave his head a nod to one side, 
as much as to say, they were traitors though for all 

While the most of those who did so were actuated 

by a sordid interest and the fear of the loss of property, 

there were some of generous feelings, who maintained 

their allegiance from integrity of principle and purity 

;^lHbpotiye. Of the latter class was a poor man in the 

> 'wmiHi part of Massachusetts, who was in the habit 

T* of attending all the different meetings that grew out of 


the usurpations and oppressions of England. 

At the same time that he did not attempt to justify 

the measures of the Parliament, he endeavored, in his 

plaiD, rustic way, to palliate them, and deprecated the 


acttire measures of the Colonies as a sabversion of all 
order, and the introduction of anarchy and eenfasion. 
He was a simple-hearted roan, bat eminent for integrity 
and a love of truth; so much so, that in his own neigh- 
borhood his word was considered as good as a bond- 
therefore, while his arguments against the resistance 
of the Colonies were not permitted to weigh a feather 
in the scale of popular, opinion; his undoubted honesty 
of heart /exempted him from the hatred which the 
"tories,^' as they- were called, at tb|it time, so commonly 
exoited; and from the exhibition of that hatred in the 
usual forms of forcible ablution and the coat of tar and 

Affairs at length reached a crisis. The battles of 
Lexington and Concord roused the people to arms, and 
the Congress which assembled at Watertown resolved 
to raise thirty thousand troops; and the business of 
enlisting and drafting was immediately commenced 
with great vigor. There was, therefore, no alternative 
left for the simple rustip of whom I have been speak- 
ing, but to take up arms against England contrary to 
his conscience, or join the forces under General Gage. 
He determined on the tatter, and in doing so, experi- 
enced all that bitterness which is incident to civil war, 
in leaving his wife and children unprovided for, and 
to the protection of those who necessarily became his 




It was a beaatiful evening in the earl j part of i/Ldy* 
The labors of the daj were over, and the father had 
returned to enjoy the hour of rest with his little familj« 
He occupied his usual seat in the arbor bj the door 
of Ids whitewashed cottage* Before him were two 
children playing on the green grass plat — a third lay 
in the cradLe» and beside it sat the mother engaged in 
preparing the little articles of dress for another ex- 
pected Tisitant. How many were the pleasant images 
of past conjugal happiness and paternal love that busy 
memory conjured up in the stillness of that soft even- 
ipg hour — but the very recollection of them caused 
melancholy forebodings to cast a gloom over the 
spirits, for they were now to be fore-gone for a time-— 
perhaps forever. 

Bland was the air around, and laden with the fra- 
grance of flowers^ but the brow of the countryman was 
hot and feverish— bright the landscape before him 
which he had so often admired, and the distant hills 
with the golden hues of sunset; but he felt not their 
beauty. He looked upon his children-— he heard the 
music of their happy voic^, and then turned to the 
pale, interesting features of his wife. . There was 
sorrow at his heart' — the convulsive twitching of the 
muscles of the mouth attested the inward working of 
his soul; and he turned aside to wipe with the sun* 
burnt hand of toil the tear-drops from his manly 



features. He attempted to speak, and while he so 
much needed consolation himself, tried to infuse 
comfort into the heart of his afflicted wife. 

Supper was at length ready, and with an expression 
of gratitude to heaven they sat down to their frugal 
repast. It was in that solemn silence which sorrow 
imposes when the surcharged heart, like the brimming 
goblet, requires but the slightest touch to make it over- 
flow with tears. It was probably the last time the 
father would ever break bread with his family^ 

The hour of prayer arrived, and oh! with what 
earnestness did the parent wrestle with heaven, and 
implore its protection for the young and helpless he 
was leaving behind. The parents shed copious tears 
from the overflowing sensibilities of nature, and the 
children wept from sympathy and from an undefinable 
sensation of evil, which they could not comprehend. 
Yet there was relief in tho^e tears, and the sanctifying 
efficacy of prayer calmed the tumults of the breast, 
and poured a soothing balm into the wounded feelings, 
which was not of earth. 

The children were put to rest. The father kissed 
them affectionately as they lay smiling in slumber, 
unconscious of .the bereavement they were about to 
sustain— embraced his disconsolate wife, again and 
again, took up his musket and started for the British 
camp. As he pursued his way, the moon that had 
been obscured, broke forth from the surrounding 



clouds, and, on turning to take a last look of his dwel- 
ling, the lamp shone through the opened door in which 
his wife still stood to catch the last echo of his foot- 
steps. The light of heaven and of faithful love he felt 
were united, to cheer him on his journey. 

On the evening of the following daj, as he approach- 
ed Boston, he fell in with the scouts of the American 
army then parading in the vicinity, and his answers 
not proving satisfactory, he was captured and taken 
before the proper officers. He did not disguise his 
intention, but made known his detertoiination of joining 
the royal army. He was accordingly sent up into the 
country and lodged in gaol in one of the western 
towns, to await his trial. The place was about thirty 
miles from his own home, and, as whatever of interest 
tran^ipired was 'made known through the different 
committees of correspondence, the true character of 
the prisoner was soon learned. The piety, the un- 
doubted honesty of the prisoner, the affecting circum- 
stances in which he had left his family, and the awe of 
punishing a man with death, who had followed the 
dictates of his conscience in what he believed to be 
his duty, all conspired to awaken intense interest in 
the breast of the sheriff, and he determined upon giving 
him an opportunity to escape. 

He accordingly observed to him one evening, ''These 
chains I fear will gall your ancles, I will therefore 
sabstitute smooth pieces of leather for the iron bands, 



but don't you cut them off, and break out, for I will 
certainly catch you if you do.'' "You need not fear 
me/' replied the prisoner, as a slight smile passed over 
his features, and he bade the keeper good night. The 
she riff retired to bed with alight heart, determining to 
take a nap in the morning, of an extra length; but he 
was disappointed, for the loud voice of the prisoner 
chanting his morning psalm, as usual, broke his slum- 
ber. The next night on leaving his prisoner he in- 
formed him that "There was something the matter with 
the key, and that unable to lock the door he would tie 
it with a rope on the outside.'' At the same time he 
charged him not to think of escaping, as he had a very 
fleet horse and could certainly overtake him. As he 
walked away he muttered to himself, "The fellow is a 
fool if he does not understand that." 

Next morning the prison door was open; but on en- 
tering he found the prisoner as he had left him, a wind 
during the night having blown open the door. The 
honest-hearted rustic considered himself in the hands 
of lawful authority, and could not be tempted to break 
the obligations of that authority; holding, as he did, the 
maxim which his Bible had taught him, that he who 
breaks the smallest law of order, is guilty of a violation 
of principle, which tends to subvert the whole. He 
then thanked the keeper for the kindness which he had 
shewn him; and as he had given him opportunities of 
escape, which he could not conscientiously use, he 



besought him for permission to go into the harvest 
fields by day, and earn bread for his suffering family. 
The request was granted — the leather straps that bound 
on his chains, were severed, and during the months of 
harvest, and for some time after, the prisoner went out 
daily to labor, and returned by night to be locked up 
in his cell. 

One evening the keeper waited in vain for his return. 
The sun set — twilight set in, then darkness — and yet 
he came not. He waited until a late hour in the night, 
and then retired to sleep, assured and gratified that his 
charge had fled. 

The next morning on awaking, he found the prisoner 
lying with his head pillowed upon the steps of the 
prison, where he had sunk down from fatigue. During 
the day and night the miserable man had been to visit 
his family, and in going and returning, had travelled 
a distance of sixty miles. 

The time of his trial came on, and the sheriff made 
preparations to conduct him to Springfield, where he 
was to be tried for high treason before the council of 
Massachusetts, at that time the supreme executive of 
the state. The prisoner assured him that it was un- 
necessary to incur the trouble and expense of a jour- 
ney, in order to take him there; as he could go, as well, 
by himself. His word was taken without hesitancy; 
and he set out upon his melancholy journey, to present 
himself for trial and certain condemnation. 



As he proceeded onward, night overtook him in a 
large wood, and coming to a cross-road he was in doubt, 
whither to direct his steps. Fatigued with walking, 
and full of uncertainty, he sunk upon his knees and 
poured forth his soul in an agonj of prayer, until he 
was aroused by the tramp of feet, and on looking up 
beheld a person on horseback beside him. The stran- 
ger had heard his pious petitions, and with kind soli- 
citude inquired into the nature of his journey, and all ' 
the little particulars of his history. He took him to 
his own home, and having entertained him for the night, 
sent him on to Springfield in the care of a friend. The 
officer (for it was an officer of justice in whose care the 
stranger placed him) conducted him to Springfield, and 
the trial began. 

The country was then struggling against a sea of 
troubles, and compelled to restrain the agency of trea- 
son, by prompt and condign punishment. The crime of 
the prisoner was substantiated by ample proof — ^he 
even admitted it himself, and was accordingly declared 
guilty. Before reading the sentence, however, the 
President put the question whether a pardon should be 

Scarcely had he ceased speaking, . when a member 
occupied the floor, and in that spirit which the temper 
of the times appeared to demand, portrayed in glowing 
language the aggressions of England, the unavailing 
supplications and remonstrances of the Colonies, the 



slaughter of their brethren in the streets of Lexington 
and Concord, and the conflagration of Charlestown by 
tlie vandal torch of the invaders. He then spoke of the 
difficulties they had to encounter— of the power of the 
foe with whom they were grappling; and concluded by 
expressing a hope, that not a member there would sa- 
crifice the great interests of the country, by granting 
impunity to the subtle and destructive agency of trea- 
son. Several speakers expressed similar sentiments 
with equal warmth; and the unfortunate man ceased to 
indulge a hope. For himself he dreaded not death; but 
in the yearnings of nature, his heart trembled for his 
wife and children; and concern for them clouded his 
manly features with melancholy. He did not weep — 
he bent not his head, but stood erect and pale as 
monumental marble, while his thoughts, abstracted 
from the things around him, were with his family, and 
with that God, who is the protector of the widow and 
the orphan. 

As the vote was about to be taken, the hasty tread 
of feet was heard, and Mr. Edwards, a prominent 
member of the council, made his appearance. He de- 
sired the President to forbear for a moment, and hav- 
ing recovered breath, addressed the council in behalf 
of the prisoner. The condemned immediately recog- 
nized the voice of the stranger who overtook him in the 
woods — he heard him speak of himself, but half uncon- 
scious, knew not what it was, nor to what it tended. 


The speaker drew a distinction between the treason 
that results from sordidness of interest or unholy pas- 
sions, and that unintentional treason which is the result 
of a misconception of dutj, and having in some mea- 
sure justified a dissent from the verdict, he proceeded 
to give a detail of the private character of the prisoner, 
his scrupulous adheretice to truth, his unexampled 
conduct while in confinement, his coming to trial un- 
guarded, and concluded by saying that he believed it 
would be politic in the council to pardon the offence, 
and that he for his part must consider the sacrifice of a 
man of so much integrity and truth as a stain, not only 
upon the Colonies, but upon human nature. Many a 
heart warmed with sympathy and admiration, as the 
character of the simple-^hearted countryman was un- 
folded, and he was pardoned without a dissenting voice. 
As his word had been sacredly kept they consented to 
consider him as a prisoner on parole, and permitted him 
to return to his family. 

As the vote was reported, the acquitted, who had 
hitherto in the prospect of death restrained himself 
gave vent to his feelings, and wept like a child — ^then 
turning to thank his deliverer, his eyes fell upon the 
pale, bloodless features of his wife, who, unnoticed, had 
glided into court, and was standing behind him with 
her infant in her arms. As she hastened to meet hint, 
the child fell from her embrace; and overpowered with 
j^y, she sunk insensible at the feet of her husband. 


The good Mr. Edwards was so much interested in 
the occurrences, that he had a painting executed of the 
gaol and a likeness of the countryman going forth with 
his sickle from prison to daily toiU My story, is now 
told, and may you, my son, learn, by this illustration 
of its utility, to have the same regard for the purity and 
holiness of truth which the countryman ch^ished." 

''I told you, grandfather," said the little boy, '*it 
would be a moral and revolutionary story," then turn- 
ing to hismother, he said, ''there are two things, mother, 
I should like to know. Did the countryman continue 
to take part with Great Britain; and was the little child 
that fell, killed?'* 

''No! my dear, the Colonies on the fourth day of 
July in the following year, declared themselves free 
and independent, and then the hero of our tale, clearly 
comprehending his duty to his country, and taking up 
arms in its favor, rose to the rank of captain,. an4 
assisted in gaining several important battles which 
perhaps he may some day relate to you, himself, better 
than I can. The countryman, whose history I have 
given you in this story, is Richard Jackson, your grand- 
father; and the infant, which fell from his wife's arms; 
is your mother that speaks with you." 

The little boy kissed his mother and grandfather by 
turns, and clapped his hands; and the tears of the three 
were mingled together in virtuous joy. The hour of 
the DJght was far advanced — they knelt down; and the 


hearts of three generations united in thanksgiving to 
God. The good old man had obtained the promise to 
the virtuous, — ^he had reached a green old age, and 
been permitted to see his children and children's 
children treading in his own footsteps to honor and 

The critic and the admirer of love-sick tales can 
sneer at our plain story; we will reply in the simple 
words of the youth, ''What pleases me most of all, it 
is true; and nothing is really good that has not some 
truth in it.'» 


Orta Balo suscepta solo, patre edita coelo.— wfluioniti*. 

The chariot of Aurora now had rolled 

In burning beauty from the'reddening sea, 
And parted' was the tissue veil of gold 

Enshrouding earth within its drapery; 
Smiles lit the ocean waves, the stream, th^grove, 

The rugged mountain peaks; and harmony, 
Awakqning around, beneath, above. 
With voice of music-hailed the heavenly queen of love. ' 

Amid the light and gossamer foam the world 

Of waters gathered, as it loseand fell 
Like beauty's heaving bosom, slowly curled 

From out the depths a rosy-colored shell, 
That tinged the waters with the blush it wor?; 

As with a merry chime, in fluctuant swell, 
Afar to Paphos' gold-bespangled shore, 
The ocean's richesft pearl in^ glittering bark they bore. 

There in her rosy car of shell, reclined j 

The ocean-bom with brow and eyes of light— fff 

The dew-gemmed tresses flaunting on the wind, « - 

Her naked beauties shading from the sight, 

That else with pain the senses had oppressed; 
While in her smile th' enamoured waves grew b^ht. 

And the cool airs around her cheek and breast 

Grew warm, and by their blush the DqMy conftased. 

^"\-^'3iW''J S . 

I I I « 

••' ■ ' »■- u. 









And on that crescent bark's transparent prow 

Sat Cupid waving his bright purple wings, 
To cool the fervor of his mistress' brow; 

And while the keel through sparkling waters springs, 
The lovely Graces, with their zones nnboond, 

And the Nereides, in living: rings 
Of beauty, did the goddess circle round. 
To whose imperial sway, creation was the bound. 



^ ^^^) 


'Tis the divinity within 

That stirs the soul of man to win 

Remembrance, and a deathless name, 

Among the lofty sons of fame — 

And is an earnest of its fire, 

Which shall burn on when suns expire. 

To wrest his memory from the gloom 
Oblivion draws around the tomb, 
The simple shepherd mars the oak. 
That from his sleep the sunbeams broke, 
And chisels on the shapeless block 
His name, or on the mossy rock. 
For this the son of genius pines, 
And pours life's oil at glory's shrines. 
To be, when he has gained the goal, 
. Emblazoned on her starry scroll. 
For this the hero drives his car 
O'er foes and cities crushed in war — 
And column and triumphal arch 
Tell ages his victorious march. 
Xiet others bid the scroll of fame 
Save from forgetfulness their name; 
Or pile th' eternal pyramid 
** Above the corse in spices hid; 
Or grave upon the storied urn, 
Th« characters that time shall spurn; 
Oh! be my memory, for years, 
Emba&med in love's perenni4||ftrs— 


THE OIFT. 231 

And my name, written on no stone, 
Nor graved on brass, to stand alone 
Amid Time's wrecks, in hall or grot, 
But traced upon a holier spot, 
Unmarred and unprofaned by art — 
The tablet of a female heart. 

How blessed my lot! could I remain 
Engraven on thy breast and brain, 
And Friendship bid my memory stay, 
When all beside has passed away, — 
And this fair Gift a token be 
Of faith, and friendship felt for thee. 


A WELCOME to Ocean^ a rest to thy form, 

From the whirlwind's commotion, — the tempest's wild storm. 

Beneath the dark billow, in the untroubled deep, 

I have made a soft pillow, to lull thee to sleep. 

Thou shalt slumber in quiet; the billowy whirl, 

That shouts in mad riot, the dark waves that curl 

In eddies around thee, shall never intrude, 

When sleep has once bound thee, in sea's solitude. 

Our seamaids shall lighten the sleep of thy bed; 
Their gold powder brighten the hair of thy head; 
They'll plait with caresses, thy soft sunny curls; 
And stud the long tresses with diamonds and pearls. 
Thou shalt drink from our fountains of chrystal, and rove, 
On Ocean's high mountains, o'er the red coral grove. 
Thro' whose stone boughs the glances of sunlight shall pour, 
Like bright golden lances, in arrowy shower. 

Beneath the waves darkling, surrounded by walls 
Of emerald sparkling, are adamant halls. 
With sapphire roof gleaming, and pavement of shells; 
With light from them streaming, like naphtha from wells. 
To the music of waters, by the moon tuned to song, 
Here Ocean's gay daughters their dances prolong: 
With the fairest, the brightest, come join then thy hand; 
As she trips it the lightest upon the gold sand. 


Te grator ad mare, hie pax est forms, 
In qnieto lare a turba procellse: 
Sub aquis marlnis, in imo leni, 
Vestimentis ostrinis tunm torum strayi. 
Dormieris quiete: fluctuosa gurges 
Cluse fertur impete, nndae tortiles 
Verticibns circum, ne perturbent te 
Sopore sepultum, in ponto leniore. 

Puelles levabunt soporem lecti; 
C fines illustrabunt arenas auri; 
Detexent comarum cirrhos studiis 
Omabuntque, gemmarum luce, ac baccis. 
Bibes crystalli fontes lustrabisque, nostro$ 
Submarines per monies, saltus corallinos, 
Per ramulo^ quorum, profluet soils 
Splendor radiorum lanceis similis. 

Imo maris patentis, septa; moenibus 
Smaragdi lucentis, magnetis domus 
Ostendunt splendentes sapphiros tecto, 
Et testas nitentes in pavimento. 
Lunae radif agunt fluctus in numerum, 
Ac Slrenes satagunt velocem chornm; 
Age manum puellae formosissims, 
Ac maxime bellae supra aurum terras. 


Passing through a long tract of country diversified 
by the ruins of stately cities and temples, o'er whose 
walls the ploughshare of desolation had been driven, 
many of which have passed away, and left not even a 
name behind them in the records of antiquity, I came 
to Heliopolis, — the city of the Sun, as its name indi- 
cates — so renowned for its magnificent temple dedicat- 
ed to Apollo. As I contemplated its dilapidated walls 
covered with the scurf of time, its magnificent fluted 
pillars, its colonnades of stucco and marble, and its nu- 
merous friezes of men, beasts, birds, fishes and flowers, 
I noticed an octagonal column, which from its hiero- 
glyphics I soon perceived had been dedicated to the 

I felt much interested in the discovery I had made, 
and being anxious to learn all I could respecting this 
remarkable bird, commenced decyphering the hiero- 
glyphics with the utmost care; and after some calcula- 
tion discovered that the five hundred years had elapsed 
since the appearance of the last, and that consequently 
the Phoenix must shortly appear. 

Elated with this further discovery, 1 burst into an 
exclamation of delight, and expressed a wish that I 



might be so fortunate as to obtain a sight of the extra- 
ordinary bird. As I finished speaking I found at my 
side a person of antique and venerable appearance. His 
locks were gray and his long white beard flowed upon 
his breast. In his hand he held a large scroll. His 
eye was not dimmed with age, but beamed with a mild 
expression of calmness and intelligence. Addressing 
me in a tone of familiarity, he said, •' I have heard thy 
wishes; follow me, and they shall be gratified." Sup- 
posing him to be a priest, who, attached to the impos- 
ing splendors of the temple, had made a faithful repre- 
sentation of the same with all its sacred appurtenances, 
I followed him, after instructing my guide to await my 
return at the ruin. 

We proceeded down a little valley whose sloping 
sides were covered with terebinth, and cocoa, and tall 
cedar trees, interspersed with shrubbery that exhaling 
their sweets, filled the air with a profusion of perfume. 
Twilight had spread her gray mantle over the earth, 
and threw a solemnity over the feelings as we re&ched 
the bottom of the vale. The mouth of a dark cave 
there presented itself, into which my conductor imme- 
diately entered. I followed with a mixture of awe and 
fear, which was heightened by the solemn echo of our 
foot-steps as they sounded through the reverberating 
cavern. The floor and sides consisted of layers of 
smooth stones, as evenly disposed as if piled by art, 
and covered at intervals with moss, which afforded an 


agreeable relief to the eye. Through apertures in the 
roof light was admitted sufficient to enable us to dis- 
cern our way, which we continued forty or fifty feet, 
until we came to a narrow portal that opened into a 
hall much larger than the one we had quitted. Fol- 
lowing my conductor within, I found myself in the 
presence of a young female of exquisite form. She 
was sitting at a table covered with a cloth of gold and 
purple, in which were wrought some of the principal 
events of history. 

Her attention was deeply fixed on a ponderous vol- 
ume that lay before her, written in oriental characters. 
A gorgeous lamp of fretted gold threw its pale light 
upon her face, and discovered a set of features singu- 
larly beautiful. Her complexion was pale, and her 
countenance wore a soft and languid air approaching 
to melancholy. Her dark tresses thrown back upon 
her shoulders, displayed a high arched foiiehead as if 
destined in an eminent degree to be the "proud em- 
pire of thought." Struck with the beauty of the fair 
mortal before me, I gazed upon her with wonder and 
admiration, without noticing any thing around me^ until 
the old man advancing towards her, said, " Daughter, 
the stranger before thee would behold the Phoenix and 
the grand festival." She raised her head, as if for the 
first time conscious of our presence, displaying a pair 
of mild blue eyes of the softest expression I ever be- 
held, and pointing to a dark curtain thaf covered the 


eastern part of the cavern, bid me behold what I 
desired. The curtain began slowly to upfurl, the lamp 
emitted a paler light, and the grotto itself appeared as 
if undergoing a change. Emotions of fear began to 
steal over me, and I turned to look for mj conductor, 
but he was gone. The curtain was entirely upfurled, 
the grotto appeared to have fled away, and I found 
myself with the mysterious female by my side, standing 
on an elevated summit at the banks of the reedy Nile. 
Far as the eye could reach o'er the dark waters, myri- 
ads of* light galleys were glancing, each of which was 
illuminated with a profusion of lights that made the 
waves appear a sea of glowing flame. The sound of 
the tabret and cymbal, mellowed by the softer notes of 
the flute and other instruments of oriental music, the 
shouting of the votaries, and the lively chants of the 
priests increasing in loudness as they approached the 
shore, announced the grand quincent^imal sacriiice. 

Having landed upon the shore, they entered upon 
the grand and imposing procession. Before went the 
' priests with solemn step, attired in their long hiero- 
glyphical habits; then came the different sacred animals 
of the Egyptians, all fantastically adorned, among 
which I observed the crocodile, curiously ornamented 
with shells, rings, and chains of gold. Next followed 
choirs of maidens attired in shining robes, bounding 
gracefully along to the sound of the music, while 
countless myriads of votaries and strangers, bearing 


offerings of gold and fraDkincense, and myrrh, closed 
up the long procession. As thej continued on» I ob- 
served at a distance, through the obscurity of night, a 
huge pile which I concluded was the august temple. The 
dark shades of night had begun now to soften into the 
sober gray of morning twilight; after which the rays of 
the rising god diffused rosy tints over the eastern sky, 
that soon deepened into the thickest crimson and gold. 
They played the majestic air usual on such occasions, 
and prepared to enter the temple. The sun in godlike 
grandeur now flashed upon the gilded colonnades of 
the temple, when all thrice bowed reverently to the 
deity, (the last time falling upon their faces,) and then 
entered within. 

To attempt describing the gorgeousness of the scene 
would be vain; the following, however, will serve to give 
a faint idea of it: The interior of the walls was of the 
finest Thasian marble, with its beautiful veins height- 
ened and polished until they resembled pictures of the 
most, delicate finish. The floors were tessellated with 
marble squares of different kinds and colors united to- 
gether with gold, and disposed and contrasted so as to 
have the most striking and beautiful appearance. In 
one corner of the temple stood the lavers for the priests 
to wash in, before and after sacrificing. They were of 
the purest ivory, inlaid with gold, and variegated 
around the brim with studdings of carbuncle and topaz, 
and other most precious stones. These lavers were 


supplied with water, that gushed like sparkling silver 
through pipes of richly fretted gold, terminating in the 
heads of sphinxes. Among the massj colonnades of 
curiously wrought marble, that supported the frescoed 
ceiling, were disposed, in endless variety, statu^of the 
different sacred animals, and small golden pillars, the 
tops of which were inlaid with gems, in such a manner 
as exactly to form the different sacred flowers; every 
color and tint being accurately represented by gems of 
similar hue. In the centre, upon a throne of polished 
gold irradiated with emerald and carbuncle flashing 
like fire, crowned with a diadem that resembled rays, 
was a grand representation of the god himself, so placed 
as to receive the full light of the sun. Circled around 
his radiant throne, like pages to attend his commands, 
stood th« light winged hours. Without this circle was 
formed another circle of months, that grouped in com- 
panions of three each, formed four minor circles, in- 
cluding the four seasons — rosy-colored spring, iijith her 
mantle^ of light green, and her garland of flowers; sum- 
mer with her crown of golden wheat; autumn, purple 
as to his buskins, with the juice of trodden grapes; and 
hoary winter, with his glassy eye, and snowy beard. 

As I gazed on the beauty of the splendid scene, there 
suddenly reigned universal silence through the temple. 
Not a sound was heard, save the light footsteps of the 
priests and their attendants, as they prepared for the 
most august rite of their ceremonies. Presently the 


smoke of the incense arose until the temple was dark- 
ened; the music burst forth in one peal of astounding 
sweetness, and shouts of " the Phoenix," " the Phoe- 
nix," were heard in deafening acclamations; until the 
confusy)n of voices and music resembled the rushing 
of mighty waters, mingled with the awful sound of 
raging winds. On came the Phoenix, soaring through 
the air, seemingly without exertion, — for its broad pin- 
ions were spread out motionless upon the breeze — and 
sailing in royal majesty along, it approached the tem- 
ple, bearing on its broad back the excavated mass of 
myrrh, in which it had deposited the embalmed body 
of the parent bird. At the vestibule it alighted, furled 
up its broad pinions of gold and crimson, and placed 
on the threshold the sacred burthen it had borne; and 
then spreading its beauteous wings on the breeze, sailed 
again through the light air towards its spicy country. I 
continued gazing with admiration on the airy volant, 
until it was nearly lost in the distance, then turning to 
look upon the priests who were about closing tl\e cere- 
monies I found the temple fading on the view, and 
receding from the sight, until, it became hardly dis- 
tinguishable in the distance; the dark curtain began to 
fall, and shortly universal gloom reigned through the 
grotto. The mysterious female was gone, but in re- 
turning again from the cave, the light of the moon 
poured through clefts in the rock that formed the 
ceiling, and on looking up I read, " Grotto of Imagi- 


nation," the letters of which were formed bj light 
breaking through the openings of the rock. Then did 
I know that the Genius who presides over ruins, had 
transported me to the cave of Imagination. 





Ear vita simills rosse, 

In sole novo florenti, 
Sed, antequam cadunt umbrae, 

Sparss ac mortase humi; 
Sed super foliis rosss 
Rorescunt noctis laehrymse 
Plorantis fatum flebile; 
Sed Duilus unquam flebit me. 

Est vita mihi similis 
Autumni arenti folio 

duod tremit lunse radii» 
Casunim, moriens solo; 

Sed ante cadet, ramulos 

Deflebit arbor viduos, 

Yenti spirabunt arbore; 

Sed Dullus aut lugebit me. 

Est vita mihi similis 
In Tampse litore sicco 

Cedentibus vestigiis 
duum fluctus ssvit ex alto; 

Sed, ingemiscens irritas 

Humani generis notas 

Reboat mare in litore, 

Sed nullus lamentabit me. 



fl/Aoioc 0ios irtl fj^k 
At Ttfi/nfn w^ uaxtyoi 

^Ti^ov^iy rvxToc luxfutt 

TlTZa-t/uitt *rZ ^xx' MrJI^m 

O/uotoe Wri /xoi ^os 
JEdom vrt rii duufttt^ 
2tMirirc *ni 4^«yicc, 
Af ^ft9 TO ^xxov VLfrrotTU 
"Em TN xo/M xiMf 9mni 

OfAOtc fiio< tarv) fMk 
I;^iri0'' Oj^i^ofJioots 

O^rod'' IT TttfA-jn vtai^ 
Yilsjj^ xvfxajrn d-oxijpaiq 

Af «]>»^Ni djpMyWr 

Tck fifjutrtt va09 tn^fonrmf, 

BoflUi irerroc 9 tfJcTNi; 



Tu parce illi arbori! 

Nee noee ramnlol 
Profuit juveni 

Mi; ac illam defendo 
Proa^os posait 

Juxta iilicis casam! 
Lignator, manebit! 

Ne molire asciam. 

Truncum Feterrimam 

Amavi; ac nmbram, 
Ceu consangainenm — 

Saccideresne illami 

Nec casde stipitem; 
Cluercnm illam patitor, 

Florere veterem. 

Dum paer, otio, 

Petivi umbraculum; 
Hie sorores, gaudio 

Loserant ver novam; 
Hic mater fovit me, 

Hic pater amavit — 
Haie lacrymae ignosce, 

Ac sine ut arbor stet. 

Prsecordia teaent 

Te, ut liber, amice! 
Hinc Tolucres canent 

Ad aaras amoene 
Sperne arbor procellamf 

Lignator hinc abi! 
Non tendes asciam 

Dam manuseritmi. 



Iltpta-KJaxi /uou 
rieei^oc; et/AW^ avm: 

"Eyyue o^nyns ^etTnros 
Tli^vrtuK* cunnVf 

M' VTMfi e(|iinfv! 

Mvpieic (t^vfotSf 

Ovat etv «r#Ti^vtlc1 

£;i^i; luu Toy ato/^uoy 
ITeUdUoy /<jr xwrnrty 

htnou '^^^(jfcLf oxjay; 
A/lA^dti, rtf nroTrtf 

Mjitm^ kuuk* Metf 

TIoTJIp Tid-tfAflU jUI — 

2igSd^ov iaxfuet, 
^i vtLKcUH i/7*rn\ 

4|plyic (emva-tf fAW^ 

Mf\<0if oioiroc 

SvxoMun itmI 
A^m /ujf |6x«t4fi 
21* E«»p jbr ;t«ji' tfijpik 

"oh mo, wk mbvbk kbntiom hkk!" 

Ovi' etvms fAfUtt irotliTeti, 
XuAffat dan^m: 

Olovreu jul x«dKr* 

At wv* » dtxto/jLwn 
Mfr ot/Kcd-' fTiffxnn'Ofuu 
Keel ^»>o?; ^ IT » vfvfm 

Maixtif — fjutxAfTA'n] 

"Hit hjumv xttkuirrm\ 
Af t^orto'tt tn M^wc 



Has childhood then its sorrows^ When the step 
Life's thornless roses pree^ieii, when the skies 
Smile with a rainbow brightness, and the streams 
Of feeling from affection's crystal founts, 
Baptize the soul with Hermon's holy dews? 
Oh! then does care upon the smiling brow 
Spread sombre shadows; the oppressive sigh 
Convulse the bosom, and the eyes distil 
From their unsullied lids, the untimely tear 
Paling the roses of the youthful cheekl 

With me, life's dream is o*er: the gossamer web 
Which fancy wove, that in a haze of golds 
Enwrapped the joys and promises of youth, 
Has parted, and, in vanishing, reveals 
The cold realities of a heartless world. 
Its hopes are vain, corrosive are its cares, 
Its friendships specious counterfeits exchanged 
For pure affection's gold, — truthless its hate, 
Its envy cankrous, and its slander dark 
And deadly as the poison-laden tongue. 
Lanced from the adder's den, the sensitive sOul 
Stinging to madness; and, with burning lips. 
Life's cup of gall and wormwood I have quaffed, 
Until the fountains of existence turn 
To bitterness; and I would gladly wrap 
The mantle of forgetfulness around 


This weary form, and sink to sweet repose, 
Far from the world, where no obtrusive eye 
Would mark my lowly slumber, save the stars; 
And where the tears of sympathy, that drip 
From the soft eyelids of the starry night, 
Alone bedew the pillow of my rest. 

But thoUj fair child! art very young in years, 
And in the greenness of the, heart, when life 
Is all a pageant, and* the joyous hours 
Trip lightsome o'er its rose beds. Yet thy brow 
Weareth a seriousness that *s not of youth) 
And in the accents of thy dulcet voice 
Is heard the low vibration of a chord 
Touched by the hand of secret sorrow. 
Whence is thy melancholy? I have looked 
Into thy soft blue eyes, and seen the cloud 
Roll darkly o'er thy vision, like the shade 
Of joy departed, and a languor cast 
A pensive sadness on thy pallid cheek. 
And as your thin fair hand unconscious played 
With yourjunbraided tresses, and a smUe 
Arching your lips, like a faint rain-bow, shone 
In momentary brilliance o'er the gloom, 
I've wondered that a shadow e'er should dim 
The brow of one so innocent and young. 
And scanning oft the fancies that have passed 
Across thy eloquent countenance, have thought 
That in thy orphan heart, were feelings stirred 
Too holy far for utterance, and that there 
Touched'by the wand of sorrow, ceaseless flowed 
The waters of affection, and enshrined 
Her memory in chrystal, whose kind hand 
Had led thy early footsteps. 


Calm thy griefs, 
Let joy illume thy cheek, and chase the tear 
That detvs thy midnight pillow, and go forth 
Beneath th' Almighty's smile, with quiet heart 
Elndued with every virtue, in the path 
Thy sainted mother trod; and when thy course 
Is ended, and the sun o£ life declines, 
The shades of death shall like a mantle fall 
Around thy sinless spirit, and thy head 
Upon the breast that pillowed it in youth, 
Shall sink to slumber, and your souls in heaven 
Renew the blissftil anion death dissolved. 



Heavenly vision! I love to trace 
The beauties of thy celestial face, 
Where the thoughts Ulce ehaogeful pictures appear, 
Now tinted by hope, now shaded by fean 
Where smiles in the rosy dimples glow 
Like crimson birds amid flowers below, 
And modesty, innocence j virtue and truth, 
Bask in the light of perpetual youth. 

Heavenly maiden! I greet thee, now 
With a lovelier beauty upon thy brow. 
And a gentler grace in thy modest mien 
Than decked the child of Olympus' queen, 
When in stately grandeur thou ofiered'st up, 
To wassailing gods the nectar cup — 
For where is a scene of more virtuous pride 
Than a ministering child by her mother's sidel 

Beautiful maid! thou boundest along, 
With a foot-fall light as the echo of song— 
To lead from the walks of their •flowery fold, 
To Saturnia's car of flashing gold, 
The winged coursers whose glittering plumes 
The light of the opening day illumes; 
And array for their flight through the azure air 
The gorgeous steeds in their tresses fair. 


"The first convert, on the arrival of the inmsioiiaries, was the chieftain't 
daughter, a maid of singular beauty and intelligence; and, through her instru- 
mentality, the whole island emlnmced Christianity. OesiroaB of convincing 
them, that the god whom they sought to propitiate by offerings and human 
sacrifiote was no god, die descended tiie crater of the volcano of Peli— the 
supposed residence of the god, — and stirred the liquid lava with the staff which 
she bore in her hand. While the awe-struck inhabitants expected to see the 
god signally punish her impieQr, ahe ascended with her blazing torch, unscath- 
ed. The charm of superstitimi wm broken— the Christians' God was acknow- 
ledged, and adoration paid no longer to the fires of Fell." 

Vaytige to the Sandwich hUmia* 

In that soft region where the tropic breeze 
Dimples in smiles the cheek of southern seas, 
A fairy isle, in richest verdure drest, 
From out the sparkling waters heaves its breast, 
And, rife with brilliance as an emerald gem, 
Glitters in ocean's purple diadem. 

There beauty clothes in living robes the ground, 
And plenty pours her liberal horn around; 
Fair summer strays amid perennial bowers, 
And wreathes her brow with amaranthine flowers.' 
High towers th' ambitious mountain to the skies; 
The humble vale in dimpled beauty lies; 
Far spreads the plain where clusters of the vine 
Are mellowed by the min to rosy wine; 
And o'er each sloping hill and down each dell. 
With generous oil the teeming olives swell. 


There sun-baked loaves hang on the tree of bread, 
A priceless feast on leafy platter spread, 
The shaddock and anana there diffuse, 
To cool the fevered lips, their rosy dews; 
There grows the orange and nutritious yam; 
There bend the citron boughs; there groves of palm 
Extend a long interminable wood, 
With nought to break the dreamy solitude. 
Save the light gambols of the sportive fawn, 
Whose footsteps brush the dew-dropti from the lawn; 
Or song, or flutter pf the nightingale, 
As waves her wing, or thrills her amorous tale, j 

There many a fbuntain winds its pearly waves 
Through flowery meads, and banks of velvet laves; 
There many a lake its glassy mirror spreads. 
In which the mountains view their azure heads; 
And many a bower, and many a grot appears. 
Where sorrowing silence drops her marble tears. "^ 
Smit with the heavenly beauties of the land. 
The zephyrs woo with breath perfumed and bland; 
And the enamored sea, that on the rocks 
Of other isdes shakes from his angry locks 
The whitened foam, subdued his lion roar. 
There comes with brow all beauty to the shore; 
And having spumed each naiad of the waves 
That binds for him her hair in coral cslvqi^ 
With languishment upon its features dwells 
And sighs his love among the echoing shells. 

Thus blessed with fruits and flowers and shining floods, 
Calm skies, pure air, and cloud-^ngii died woods, 

* Stalactites. 


It looks like Eden in ambrosial bloom, 

Ere sin had stained or earth had known a tomb; 

Save where yon mount that threats with angry brow 

The sky, and frowns upon the vale below, 

Glares on the day with red volcanic light, 

And wreathes with lurid flame the dusky locks of night. 

Yet in that favored and unclouded clime, 

Where nature reigns majestic and sublime, 

And beauty with profusion strews the isle, 

When all beside is pure, mankind is vile. 

The breeze on which the spicy odors rise 

To point man's prayers and praises to the skies, 

And raise his grovelling spirit from the dust. 

Is poisoned by the .upas breath of lust; 

The eye of day beholds unholy love 

Pollute the sacred stillness of the grove. 

Where giant trunks the cloud-capt columns stand 

In heaven's great temple, reared by nature's hand; 

And gorgon-headed superstition reigns, 

A demon tyrant, o'er the peaceful plains; 

Freezes to stone the genial founts that roll 

In gentle tides of mercy through the soul; 

And bids the sire exult, though nature weep, 

As to his offspring's heart the bloody knife sinks deep. 

Where yon volcano like a funeral pyre 
Rolls up its cloudy smoke and volumed fire, 
A deity as superstition tells, 
Enthroned on flames in burning grandeur dwells. 
And hurls upon the startled isle his wrath, 
While fear and fiery ruin mark his path, 
There earth's fair flowers are strewed upon his shrine, 
The ocean's wealth, — the treasures of the mine — 
But richer offerings swell the sacrifice, 
Outspread before this modem Moloch's eyes; 



Lo! parents, dead to every joy that blessed 
The bosom, snatch their infants from the breast, 
Unseal life's fountains to propitiate 
The angry demon of his raefal hate; 
And hurl their bodies down the fieiy flood, 
While the red crater's lips are cooled with blood. 

But soon these crimes and gloomy horrors cease, 
Before the dawn of piety and peace; 
While superstition chilled the heart with fears 
And joyed in blood, immortal truth appears 
With brow serene, bright eye and heavenly form, 
As smiles the rainbow o'er the murky storm. 
The heralds of the God who said, "Gk> preach 
My Gospel, every living creature teach," 
By wings of gentle breezes waited o'er 
The world of waters, reach the palmy shore; 
And, clothed with light as with a robe proclaim 
The joyful tidings of a Saviour's name; 
While Faith unlocks the gates of heavenly love. 
And pours its brilliance down the day-star from above. 

When darkness spreails her mantle o'er the deep, 
And broods, with folded wings, o'er Peli's steep, 
How brightly beautiful the rosy dawn. 
With cheek of bloom and breath of balm, comes on, 
And lights, with kindling blush and beaming smile. 
The darkened sea and night-enshrouded isle; 
But brighter, fairer than the opening day 
On Peli's isle was truth's immortal ray, 
That on the daughter of her chieftain came 
In light of love and purifying flame, 
Bade error's clouds disperse in air, and broke 
The heavy bond of superstition's yoke. 



Fairest of maidens, in that sea-girt wild, 
Was Kaplioni, naturje's blooming child, 
With air of majesty and step of |;race, 
And queenly beauty beaming in her face — 
A soul all guileless, and a matchless form, 
And breast with every generous feeling warm. 
When the dusk-bosoms of the island girls, 
In wanton pride, were whitened o'er with pearls; 
And gem-decked tresses lovers' eyes allured, 
Her brighter charms all other charms obscured. 
When in the sea they revelled 'mid the spray, 
Her well-formed limbs more graceful moved in play, 
And shone more beauteous on the shore, when oil 
Their surface polished after sportive toil. 
When o'er the surge they sped the light canoe, 
Her bark flew foremost like a wild sea-mew; 
And first in speed when 0ed the huntod hart, 
She winged the arrow with unerring art. 
When evening's bright and parti-colored dyes 
Had paled and vanished from the sunset skies, 
And music called to merriment and love, * 
Upon the sward or 'neath the star-lit grove, 
Her conch outswelling all, with witching spell 
Thrilled every drowsy echo of the dell; 
And as the dance went round upon the plain, 
Hers was the lightest step of all the train. 

Such Peli's pure and peerless daughter shone, 
A dream of beauty, and of love a zone: 
With feelings buoyant, and aspiring breast, 
To dare fame's height in hope of being blest. 
Thus swelled her restless and ambitious mind, 
Until she left all rivalry behind, 
In grace, and beauty, and acknowledged worth. 
The first and fairest of her ocean earth; 


And sire and suitors gazbd in love and pride, 

While, -with unsated heart, the maid still sighed. 

Hers was the weariness of human bliss — 

The heart that pants for brighter worlds than this— 

The inspiration of that holy flame 

That whispers of the heavefn from which it came — 

In gentle breathings, as the murmuring shell 

Speaks of the ocean where it used to dwell. 

Thus in the dance — ^the chase — on. earth and main. 
She sought for happiness, but sought in vain; 
Then brooded in eternity of thought, 
Upon the lessons simple nature taught — 
Gazed on th^ planets with admiring eyes. 
And asked, what hand arrayed them in the skies'? 
Beheld the heaving billows of the sea 
Bound forward like a courser, wild and free. 
And wondered, as the tide bound goal they gain. 
What arm of power had curbed the flowing rein; 
Saw c^imly pictured in the volumed earth, 
A great First Cause, in whom all things had birth; 
Read in the flowers and fruitage of the grove 
A mighty spirit, traced in lines of love; 
Then mused, bewildered, as her thoughts were turned 
On Peli's deity in flame inurned. 
Who from his flaming palace upward curled, 
A god of terror o'er an awe-struck world. 

Reflected back from nature, many a spark 
Of light from heaven fell on her conscience darkj 
Shone faint o'er error's misty clouds and doubt, 
In momentary glimmer, and went out: 
But when the messengeis of truth made'known 
Creation's King, the fiat from whose throne 


Evoked the earth iVom chaos' darkened caves, 
Spread out the sea with all its wealth of waves, 
Arrayed the hills that tremble at his nod, 
And jewelled skies a footstool for their Gfod; 
When they revealed redemption's mighty plan^ 
And spoke of him who bled for guilty man. 
Heaven's full efiulgence broke with noontide ray 
Upon her heart, and chased the night away. 
Each earth-born care and worldly passion stilled. 
And all the soul with pious rapture filled. 

As truth young Eaplioni's mind inspired. 
And burning zeal her kindling bosom fired. 
The impassioned eloquence of nature came 
Forth from her lips as touched with holy flame; 
And prayers and tears were mingled, as the maid 
To sire and friends the Gospel truths portrayed. 
But as the surface curls beneath the breeze, 
While all unbroken sleep the nether seas. 
Their feelings trembled, by the maid reproved, 
While prejudice within remained unmoved; 
Still for the god of fire their altars burned, 
And still the Qod Omnipotent was spumed. 
Then while her mind by anxious cares was prest, 
A holy daring nerved her troubled breast. 
To brave their deity upon his throne. 
And prove the christians' God was God alone. 

As sunk the sun, while gorgeous hues of even 
Were pencilled on the canvass clouds of heaven, 
And a calm quiet, like a spell of love. 
Came down on bamboo tent and fair alcove; 
The maids, with Kaplioni at their head. 
Advanced, but not, as erst, with bounding tread, 





But slow and staid, in melancholy grace, 
With speechless sorrow pictured on the face, — 
Not to the swell of music — for alone 
Came airy murmurs from their conchs unblown; 
From female eyes the tear-drops fell like rain, 
As swept the band along the verdant plain: 
And manhood's bended brow and lip comprest 
Kept down the rising sorrows of the breast, 
While on the breeze that bore a sire's despair, 
Were flung the tresses of his silver hair, 
As towards the island god, with aspect wild 
And faltering step, he pressed upon his child. 

Slow toiled the maid, o'er many a rugged heap 
Of blackened scoria up the mountain's steep, 
Steadying her footsteps with a sandal spar. 
While, struck with awe, the myriads stood afar. 
And gazed to see the god of fire ascend 
In awful wrath) the mountain-top to rend. 
And whelm the intruder 'neath the fiery tide. 
That sweeps in ruin down its blazing side. 
Now on the crater's verge the maiden stood 
High o'er the abyss where rolled the lava flood— 
And raised, as fell the tranquil light of even. 
Her brow serene and outstretched arms to heaven, 
Thenjsunk beneath the cavern's awful shades, 
As sorrow's wildest wail, from youths and maids, 
Shook with the throe of anguish hill and plain. 
And startled with its peal the far-resounding main. 

Hushed is the voice of woe, and soul and sense 
Bound in expectance, breathless and intense; 
Yet one with feeble step and locks of age 
Climbs up ihe mount and braves ihe demon's rage, 


While at its base, strong, vigorous youths appear, 
With nerves unstrung, and pallid cheeks of fear. 
And now, the summit gained, the awe-struck sire 
Saw heavenward roll a myriad sparks of fire, 
And shuddered as the red, revolving blaze 
Flashed from the crater up its quivering rays, 
Then, shrieking, sunk to earth, and crowds below 
In fearful cry, sent back the plaint of woe. 

As lay the fallen chieftain, o'er him bent, 
Not Peli's god, in fiery element, 
Enrobed in all his blazing terrors wild — 
But bright with holy smiles his blooming child, 
Who, fired by zeal, with dauntless foot had trod 
The burning realm of superstition's god 
And stirred with sandal spar the lava wave 
That boiled below, within the mountain's cave. 

The maiden spoke, and at the well-known sound 
Were broke the chains of error that had bound; 
Light stole upon his bosom, and he turned 
From Peli's god, vain, powerless and spurned; 
And calling on the christian's God alone. 
Descended with his child, whose features shone, 
Illumed with hope, and with her torch's flame, 
Like Moses', when from Sinai's brow he came; 
And error fled, as spread the holy glow 
Of light and love amid the crowd below, 
Who owned the Deity, till earth and main 
Re-echoed back "Jehovah God!" again. 





The Toung Sizeb— pag« 13. In the American Biogn^hieal Dic- 
tionary appears, in some ten or a dozen lines, a sketch of Arthor Browne, 
a yoong American who receiyed some pecuniary aid to enable him to 
graduate in the University of Dublin. It is simply stated that he after- 
wards obtained the professorship of Greek in the institution, became 
lecturer oa Civil Law, Chancellor of the University, and its reprctenta- 
tive in Parliament. The circumstances appeared, from their strange- 
ness, to afford a good subject for imagination, and were accordingly 
made the basis of the " Toung Sizer." 

The Royal Professor— po^e 50. Should this tale fall into the 
hands of any English gentleman, we hope it will not be considered a 
general satire, but a living sketch of one of those crafty geniuses, who 
come among us to profit by the preference of the Jonathans for trans- 
atlantic personages. 

The Hungarian Princess— ^xige 199. The tortures of Hillel Elm- 
manuel, in this story, may be considered too horrible for recital; but it 
will be recollected that in many countries of Europe, in past centuries, 
the ill-fated descendants of Abraham were 'devoted to death by every 
species of torture — were impaled, sawed asunder, roasted and flayed 

^..,. '-i-^ 

- 'n-.-,-